Servare Vitas
by newscaper
Summary: To Save Lives. A Bones Novel. COMPLETE! Brennan helps Booth try to lay old ghosts to rest as he becomes a sniper for the FBI, a decision with life and death consequences that could change everything. BoothBrennan. Lang&Viol. Ch.1to8 revised DEC8th.
1. A Decision

**_Author's Note REVISED --- Important! Please Read: _**

**I wanted to write a fic that showed us Booth as an expert in his own domain. Sometimes in the show the complementary balance, the yin-yang of Booth and Brennan gets out of kilter, and Bones does everything, coming up with all the key insights even out in the field. Booth is almost reduced to her chauffeur.**

**FWIW I actually started this _before_ S1's The Soldier on the Grave ep, but that gave me the perfect jumping off point. Since this fic is a continuation of S1 with Goodman, S2 on the show has made this more AU with Cam's arrival. She simply doesn't exist in this fic. I gues that should make some of you happy :) **

**Let me retroactively acknowledge my two beta readers. I actually did not have a beta for the first half or two thirds of the story. However, in the course of reading feedback I met _a2zmom_. I began bouncing certain ideas off her and she actually turned into a beta reader as such. I consider her my toughest customer on characterization and the fine line between "moving" and mere mush. Through her I met _astridv_ who came to do yeoman work on the fine details as well as characterization. Both are LiveJournal users – check out their journals! Any goofs, missteps or failure to take their advice are purely my fault :) **

**This story was written and released as a WIP, in effect a long running serial, from May to the end of November 2006. As a result, the chapters vary in length and there are _many_ cliffhangers. So, if you are reading this for the first time in the completed state, I really suggest trying to take a short break (even just a few minutes) between chapters to let some of the cliffhangers "soak in" for the maximum impact. And then you can imagine what it was like for my original readers who had to wait days or sometimes weeks to find out what happened next :)**

**Anonymous reviews _are_ enabled. **

**If you are re-reading and would like to post another review of a chapter for whatever reason, and FFN says you can't, just do an anonymous review without logging in – but still sign the review.**

**I have gone back and tweaked the first eight chapters, as well as 11 and 13, as of December 6.**

_-----------------------_

_Three weeks after The Soldier on the Grave…_

Seeley Booth swiped his badge to enter the secure lab area, and a smile lit up his face upon seeing Bones talking to Zack behind one of the widescreen monitors. She was in full blown lecture mode, pointing at something on the screen hidden from his vantage point while manipulating the mouse. She only paused briefly to flash a quick smile in greeting before continuing.

"If we zoom in closer you can easily see small nicks and abrasions on the edges of the foramen magnum, with further scarring opposite on the interior surface of the parietal bones..."

"What? Some sick bastard was scraping out brains with a teaspoon?" Booth interjected.

Brennan and Zack both looked up from behind the display in shock at that, which for some reason he found more annoying than when they simply thought he was clueless.

"What?" he groused. "You know I'm not just a knuckle-dragger with a badge and a gun. I'm actually a pretty sharp guy, sharp enough to pick up some of the lingo from you guys after all this time, and even have the initiative to crack an anatomy book on my own."

"I'm just surprised, that's all," Brennan replied. She hurriedly added as his brow started to furrow, "Not by your ability, but by your interest. So often you complain when we use technically correct anatomical terminology instead of the vernacular…"

"Well, Bones, I perfectly understand your need to be precise with each other in the lab, it's just that when you need to communicate the basic idea quickly, there's nothing wrong with plain old English. But I'm not here to bicker. Remember we are meeting over lunch?" His eyebrows rose in question.

"Oh…" She'd forgotten, absorbed by the subject matter as always. She gave Zack a few parting instructions, grabbed her jacket and left with him.

- -

At Sid's they enjoyed the chef's surprise for lunch. They were both down to the last few delicious bites when Booth decided to broach the subject of their meeting.

"Bones, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about." She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin as she finished chewing and swallowing, and quietly waited for him to proceed.

He reached across the table with his right hand to lightly touch her left, and caught her eyes with his earnest expression.

"I really wanted to thank you again for listening to me at Arlington when I had to get Kosovo off my chest." She started to dismiss it, but he continued, "No, it was very important to me. Thanks for being there for me. An old Army buddy recently told me I needed to get it off my chest with someone close to me, and he was right."

'You've always been there for me," she replied warmly. He was pleased to see she did not pull away her hand immediately. It felt so warm and comforting he had had to tell himself to let go, but he left his hand right beside hers.

"The way I put Radjic down always ate at me, but once I became a father myself it really resonated. But you helped me regain some perspective – and your willingness to accept me no matter what, well that really meant a lot."

She rewarded him with her best smile, the one few got to see.

"Anyway, you've made it a lot easier for me to come to terms with a decision I've been putting off." At her intent expression he took a deep breath and forged on. "Several times in the last year the FBI has tried to recruit me for a special detail. I've been blowing them off, but… they really need me and I'm seriously considering signing up now. But only if it's OK with you..."

Suddenly wary, Bones pulled her hand from along side his and placed it in her lap.

"What about us?"


	2. Duty

"What about our partnership?" she quickly amended, her expression becoming more guarded.

_Crap._ He ran his hand through his hair then held her gaze, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I'm sorry I startled you." He continued contritely, "Nothing's going to change with my day job, I'll just be part of an auxiliary, strictly volunteer, sort of a big league FBI SWAT backup team."

Slowly, she put her hand back on the table near his, somewhat reassured. "As a …?"

"A sniper," he finished, a little abashed.

"Are you really OK with that after all you've been through?" She was surprised and concerned.

"Well it's something I was rejecting out of hand, but I think I'm really needed. With the War on Terror and things apparently heating up with Iran as well as rumbles from Al Qaeda, the FBI wants a deeper bench, with more support in DC and a few other cities if it should hit the fan."

"I don't know what that means," her nose wrinkled.

He chuckled, "It? You mean the shit?"

"I know what that means," she griped, rolling her eyes. "The bench…" she clarified.

"It's a team sports metaphor," he sighed. "Don't worry about it. In several cities they want to have some trained agents to back up the full time guys if needed."

"But why you?" she asked softly. She reached out and briefly touched his hand again.

"Why me?" It wasn't the time for false modesty. "I'm a damned good shot, Bones, better than 99th percentile. Plus a combat vet. On the other hand, since this is law enforcement and not military, they also want regular agents who are used to being around civilians; otherwise they'd just get operators fresh out of uniform. I fit the bill on all counts."

"But why are _you_ interested?" she continued.

"If you can resist deconstructing for a moment, I guess I'd say 'duty'. I know that's old-fashioned and all…," he paused, collecting his thoughts.

"…snipers are needed, I can do it, and not many can, at least not nearly as well. If not me, then who? It's time for me to step up to the plate again and try to set aside my old regrets."

He added even more soberly, "I'd never be able to forgive myself if something bad happened right here in DC, and I'd passed up the means to stop it…"

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing", she whispered a little sadly.

Recognizing the Burke quote, he replied gently, "I hoped you'd understand."

"You _are_ a good man, Booth." She gave his hand a brief squeeze and let go.

He gazed into her eyes, silently expressing his appreciation for her support. The moment lingered before he felt a need to lighten the mood.

"Plus I get to ride around with a lot of new toys in the back of the Tahoe," he said with a wink.

She smiled back, "When do you start?"

"In a few weeks the two-week-long selection process starts for a new class, down at Quantico. It's supposed to be pretty damned tough, I might not even make it."

"I'm sure you will," she countered.

He smiled again at her vote of confidence. "Well if I do make it, then there will be two more eight week training sessions at Quantico and a few other locations."

He gave her a devilish grin, "Believe it or not, I'll miss you…" As soon he said it he wondered if should have said 'you guys', but his honesty paid off.

She smiled back, but was serious with her answer. "I'll miss you too. As long as you're coming back to me, right?"

"You can count on it, partner."


	3. Departure

_Four weeks later…_

Temperance Brennan looked up from the draft of the final report she was proofreading, distracted by the minor commotion outside her office. Angela's bubbly greeting stood out slightly amongst the indistinct voices of the other squints, "Well aren't we all tanned and toned." Then louder, apparently for her benefit, "Booth's back!"

Brennan smiled to herself as she placed the pages of the draft back into the manila file folder and set it on her desk, neatly aligned with the edge of the blotter. Angela's grinning head suddenly poked through her doorway and stage-whispered, "…and he brought Special Agent Cutie with him," before disappearing again.

She supposed Angela's Agent Cutie was the substitute Booth had said he was going to be bringing around to introduce. Booth had received word just yesterday he'd successfully passed the two week "tryouts", and was now up for the actual training course which would be much longer. She hoped this temporary liaison would be a good fit with her team like Booth had turned into, somewhat surprisingly.

This train of thought was cut short by the arrival of the two agents in her doorway; she stood to greet them. Booth smiled at her guardedly before introducing the two of them.

"Dr. Brennan, I'd like you to meet Agent Chad Williams. Chad, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan."

She shook hands with the blonde agent, absently noting his movie star good looks while digesting the fact Booth had apparently deliberately left off adding her nickname. His uncharacteristically strict adherence to formality must mean something…

'I'm pleased to meet you, Agent Williams. I'm sure we'll work well together." Behind Agent Williams' back, Booth rewarded her failure to add "Please call me Temperance" with a small grin and a nod. She assumed he'd fill her in shortly. _He'd better._

His smooth and apparently manicured hands held on to hers a second or two longer than was really appropriate, mildly annoying her right off the bat.

"The pleasure is all mine, Dr. Brennan, and I must add I'm a big fan of your brilliant work, both on and off the page." He put a hand over his heart, "I dare say your jacket photo doesn't do you justice." He flashed what he probably considered a winning smile, "Please, I insist you call me Chad. May I take the liberty of calling you Temperance?"

She couldn't really say no although his presumption bothered her. His charm offensive was, well… _offensive_. This time she noted, with some amusement, Booth scowled.

Said agent interrupted, clapping his hands together, "Ok. Since we're done with the niceties, Chad, will you give the doctor and me a few minutes? We need to discuss a few things in private. Go out and talk to the rest of the crew and get 'em to show you just what they do." He sat down on Brennan's couch and loosened his tie.

"Sure, Booth." Williams left the office, closing the door after himself.

"And don't let the door knob hit you in the ass on the way out, " Booth muttered to his back, once the door was safely shut.

"Sorry about that, Bones," he grimaced.

"Why, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Oh, Williams is perfectly competent, but I just really don't like him. I asked Cullen for someone else, but he was all that was available."

"Well I don't see anything wrong with him," she teased, "or is this your famous 'gut' talking?" Her needling failed to get a rise out of him.

"Don't trust him fully, ok? He's an ambitious political type who just sees this gig as another high profile bullet for his resume. And he'd probably love nothing better than to worm his way in here, and push me aside if he could," he fumed.

She shook her head, "Never, I'd go on strike first. Seriously."

He laughed, "Now I'd pay tickets to see that, Cullen and Goodman both popping aneurysms." Having vented, he gave her a sheepish grin, "Just don't you dare let him call you his partner. _We're _ the partners."

"Not a chance," she agreed with a smile. "Even without your warning, he struck me as a little too slick."

"He's as phony as they come, but women generally don't see it for some reason. They usually eat his smooth-talking BS right up. He'll probably see you as something of a challenge, a trophy - don't fall for it."

"Hardly. I'm not like other women."

"No, you're not," he agreed, smiling warmly at her for several moments.

She couldn't help but smile back at what he'd clearly intended as a compliment. There was not even a hint of irony. His smile lasted a little too long, almost making her uncomfortable, but then she wondered when she'd first begun to realize that he wasn't just patriarchically territorial, controlling, but was being protective because he _cared_.

She cleared her throat, breaking the pregnant silence.

"I'm glad that's all settled. When does your training start?"

"The new cycle starts next Monday down at Quantico, then after a couple weeks it's the Marine Corps Scout/Sniper School down in Camp Lejeune with the friggin' jarheads for a couple more. We're also supposed to go borrow Delta's shooting house down at Fort Bragg for a change of pace."

Something prodded her to suggest, "Since you'll be out of pocket a while, why don't we plan on meeting for dinner Sunday evening?" She fumbled slightly, "Ah, that is, if you're already packed."

"That's a great idea. I'd love to," he happily agreed.

Then he sat in silence for a minute, rubbing his chin as he looked off into space, his face growing more thoughtful as she watched. She waited patiently, knowing by now that that look meant he wanted to share something important to him. She mentally patted herself on the back, knowing Angela would be pleased with her newfound empathy.

Finally he sat forward on the edge of the couch and spoke, still not looking at her...

"This is where it starts to get real, not so academic anymore. In just a couple months I'll be on call – I'm already past the biggest hurdle and well on my way..."

"Are you ready for that?" she asked. She got up from her chair and came around to lean back against the front of her desk, across from him.

He continued softly, not directly answering her question, "When you kill someone as a sniper it's different than being in the middle of a firefight. In both cases you pull the trigger, but in sniping from a set-up position in cover it's not 'kill or be killed', you can't pretend to yourself that its simply self-defense. You're deliberately putting a man down, who was no immediate threat to you, possibly not even a threat to your buddies. You have time to watch them smoke, smile or scratch themselves before you pull that trigger. To get the job done you have to just see them as targets, but sometimes late at night I still think about it." He sighed. "Intellectually I know they had it coming, but still…"

She wanted to offer him something…

"But they really were the enemy. And, anyway, you were doing your duty, following orders."

He gave a snide laugh then looked up right at her, intently. "Would you excuse those death squads down in Central America with 'They were only following orders'?"

"No," she whispered.

"Then don't do it for me. It's up to me to make sure I don't lose sight of right and wrong, and know when to shoot, or not. Or how to regret killing even though it was necessary, even if it was deserved."

"But you don't have to be alone. I'm here for you," she said.

That finally broke through his mood a little, earning her a bittersweet smile. She was truly moved by his concern with the morality of his actions, displaying depths she never expected.

"Forty-three," he added softly, looking right in her eyes.

"What?" she asked, just as softly.

"Forty-three formally confirmed kills," he explained. "Probably about that many more unconfirmed." He grimaced, "Half didn't even have a weapon in their hands."

She truly thought she was being helpful…

"If you're looking for absolution, perhaps you should see a priest," she said slowly.

She knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say as Booth jerked like she'd slapped him in the face, stunned. Looking everywhere but at her, after a moment he awkwardly rose to his feet, shaking hands aimlessly patting his pockets like he was making sure he had not misplaced his keys, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles, not seeing anything in her office, face a pale mask.

"Sure… sorry to have bothered you," he mumbled, voice uneven as he turned to the door.


	4. Rejection

Booth was lost, adrift, standing there sightless in her office. His face felt numb, the only definite sensations being the hard knot burrowing deep into his gut, and the need to breathe. He finally focused on the office door before him and regained some ability to form a coherent thought.

He couldn't _fucking_ believe it. After her supportive touch when he spilled his guts about Radjic, he thought she was different, could handle knowing all of who he really was. She was the first woman, hell, the first _person_ outside of his old unit, he'd ever fully opened up to about his past.

He was a damned fool to believe she was better than Rebecca or Tessa.

He was humiliated by her inability to accept his revelations, his very self. Worse, she'd led him on then made him feel totally ashamed, naked, _dirty_.

He was finally able to move, and stepped to the door. Yet he paused, hand on the knob, something in him not wanting to have been so wrong about her, or perhaps wrong about himself.

Maybe, just maybe, it was some sort of horrible mistake.

He closed his eyes and waited a few seconds for words from her. . .

. . . words which never came.

He opened his eyes and grimaced. _'Fool me once…' _

He straightened up, schooled his features, turned the knob and exited.

He wouldn't dignify her by slamming her door shut.

Instead he simply gave a gentle push. . .

The door closed with a muted click.

He didn't look back.


	5. Regret

"Sure… sorry to have bothered you."

She watched Booth crumple in on himself, realizing she'd made a terrible mistake in her choice of words, hurting him deeply somehow. Wondering how things could so quickly take a turn for the worse right when she'd formed what had to be the most intimate connection she'd ever shared with another human being, she stood paralyzed as he turned away from her.

A part of her mind wailed, insisting in disbelief, "But he _is_ Catholic!"

She suddenly understood the problem, that he thought she'd pushed him away right as he was at his most exposed and vulnerable, that she had told him to take his troubles elsewhere.

Seeing the possible death of their partnership in spirit, if not in name, her mind raced at a million miles an hour, analyzing the situation and trying to figure out how to extricate herself from this mess. What should she say to him? She felt like she was running around in circles, panic rising as he finally turned the door knob.

"Booth," she mouthed, but her voice wouldn't work properly. She raised a hand out to him, but he didn't see it. She was finally able to move, stepping toward the door just as it began to swing shut. Words still failed her, her throat constricted. Looking at his retreating back she hoped he'd turn around and see her in the doorway.

He didn't.

The door closed in her face, latching with a soft click.

She stood there like an idiot for a little while longer then finally moved to close the blinds.

She stumbled to the couch and sat down, nearly sick to her stomach.


	6. Renewal

**Revised 12/8**

Angela Montenegro snuck another appreciative look at Agent Williams' nicely shaped butt. 'Agent Cutie' had taken off his suit coat and was bent over Hodgins' lab bench, peering into the entomologist's microscope. Williams might be more of a pretty boy than she generally went for, but the possibilities for a little fun were intriguing. He'd definitely been flirting a few minutes ago…

Her reverie was interrupted by Booth, who called out sharply, "Chad! Ten minutes and we're going."

Williams waved a hand in acknowledgement without looking up. She looked over at Booth, who'd just left Brennan's office. The agent was wandering aimlessly around the lab, looking at various gadgets yet clearly distracted, a bit shell-shocked even. The others might not notice, but Angela easily picked up that Booth was troubled by something. She looked back at Brennan's office and this time noticed the blinds were drawn closed.

_Uh-oh. Something's up_, she thought.

---

Inside the office, Brennan rubbed at the bit of extra moisture in the corners of her eyes and moved back to her desk chair. _Tears don't solve anything_, the rational part of her mind said. He'd bared his soul to her and thought she had rejected him. She realized she needed to get him back in her office so she could make things right somehow, she worried that if she let him leave the lab and sleep on it, scarring over, she might never get through to him quite the same way again. If she couldn't reach out to him, overcoming her own armor… well she might as well be stuck in her shell forever, always apart from everyone. _Do something now, Brennan!_ But just what to say to him?

A small voice whispered in her head, "See, _this_ is why you shouldn't let people get too close! The hurt isn't worth it." _Shut up_ she told the voice. She wanted a life.

Her mind began racing unproductively again, but then she remembered Angela's recent advice to her. She picked up the phone and dialed.

- -

Out in the lab the phone rang at Angela's workstation. She picked it up.

"Montenegro," she answered cheerily.

"Angela, it's me. I need you to do me a big favor."

"Sure, sweetie. What is it?"

"Whatever it takes, get Booth to come back in here. I really need to talk to him."

Angela glanced at the agent who had stopped his wandering tour of the lab and was pacing back and forth, clearly agitated. She put two and two together.

"Bren, what happened?"

"I can't go into it now. Please, just get him back in here. I… I can't come out myself, I'm a bit of a mess." The urgency in her quavering voice was unmistakable.

"Ohmigod, have you been crying? Did he upset you? Did he hurt you?" she demanded.

"No… I hurt _him._ Badly. I'm afraid if he gets out of here he's never coming back. "

"You just hang in there. I'm on it."

She hung up the phone, and steeled herself. Looking at Booth, it was apparent his hurt was turning into anger. _Tempe is going to fill me in on the details if it kills us all._ She left her workstation and approached the agent, his pacing having turned his back to her again.

"Booth." He spun on a heel and faced her, expression stormy.

"Yes?" he answered cautiously.

"Please go back into Brennan's office. She really, really wants to talk to you," she implored.

His eyes narrowed, "I don't know if there's anything more to say."

Angela moved closer and reached out to grasp his upper arm. "Booth, I don't know what happened in there between the two of you, but she _needs_ you in there. She knows she screwed up and wants to make things right."

He said nothing, clearly skeptical.

She tried once more, " Please… C'mon, remember who we're talking about here, Dr. Temperance Brennan, queen of the social graces? Give her a chance?" She finally got through.

"Ha", he barked a bitter laugh and rubbed at his eyes. "You got that right," he nodded, "Ok."

- -

He'd worked up a good mad, but Booth supposed he owed her that much, to hear her out. He left Angela and walked over to the office door where he rapped on the glass twice.

"Come in", came muffled through the glass.

He opened the door and there she was, right before him. Her eyes were a little puffy, but, if she'd done any crying, she gave no sign.

"Please close it", she said softly.

He turned around to swing the door shut, preparing himself not to be swayed by whatever rationalizations she might come up with, whatever arguments or excuses, but she caught him off guard…

- -

Brennan remembered what Angela had said, that sometimes just a _touch_ was the best thing. She took a deep breath and closed the gap between them. She hugged him tight, willing him to understand.

- -

Booth stood rigid, not returning her embrace at first, but her intensity disarmed him. "I'm so sorry", she whispered against his shoulder. "I never meant to push you away, to hurt you."

He gave in and put his arms around her.

After a few seconds she pulled back and made eye contact. "I want you to know you can share _anything_ with me, and I will never turn away. I will always be here for you, just like you've been for me."

"So… what just happened?" He had to probe a little deeper.

She took his hand and led him the couch where they both sat, facing each other, before she responded.

"I was… scared. You know me. I went all analytical on you." She chuckled at herself, "Angela would say I was engaging in 'inappropriate rationality'. She gave him a shy smile.

He couldn't help himself and smiled back at her, "Rationality can be overrated."

"Well you _are_ Catholic" she added, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She just had to get the last word in, and he was perfectly happy to let her have it this time.

He felt an immense weight gone from his shoulders, and he let out a great sigh. His Bones, the woman he'd thought she was, _hoped_ she was, was back. He was a pushover.

They enjoyed a companionable silence for a few moments, both savoring the sense of relief.

He finally spoke first, looking down at her hand still lying in his. "Tessa thought me being an FBI agent was glamorous, exciting. And a former Army sniper? Dangerous, exotic. But she never wanted any of her illusions disrupted by the whole uncomfortable truth, the reality of it all."

He looked up into her eyes, "Thank you. I really mean that."

She nodded, "You're welcome."

She gave him something else.

"About that number… forty-three…"

Apparently she said it to show she was holding nothing back. Her acceptance warmed him. "Yes?" His eyes were locked on hers again.

"I hope it never goes up…"

He looked down, nodding his agreement.

"…Unless it needs to", she added.

He looked back up at her again, his eyes questioning hers.

She clarified, "You are not a soldier any more. I know you will only be pulling that trigger to save lives, and you will do your best to make the hard choices in terrible situations. Who better to be in that position of responsibility than someone who thinks about right and wrong, life and death?"

"I know that, otherwise I wouldn't have volunteered," he objected.

"Then let yourself believe it," she chided gently. He nodded again.

"Killer with a conscience, eh?" he joked wryly.

"No," she squeezed his hand, "_Protector_ with a conscience."


	7. Relief

_Several weeks later at the USMC Scout/Sniper School, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina_

_Friday 4:05PM_

…WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP-WHAP…

Booth covered his ears as best he could as the incredibly loud bass bleat of the pale gray Marine UH-1 Huey chopper passed directly overhead at 300 feet, low enough you could feel the wash from the main rotor.

"SEE YOU AT THE DEBRIEF?" a voice shouted over the thankfully receding noise.

He gave the thumbs up sign to his spotter this round, Garcia, an agent from the Baltimore field office. They'd literally taken an entire day to inch their way through muck and dense underbrush a piddling thousand yards to approach a target without being spotted, then inch back out. Damned if it wasn't Friday and Miller Time, but first they had to get evaluated on their technique and reamed out by an ancient gunnery sergeant who'd trained with Carlos Hathcock, the world record Marine sniper in Vietnam. Though he gave Booth some credit for actual sniper experience in combat, that was apparently mostly canceled out by the fact he was Army. He shook his head while stamping his boots on the pavement, trying to knock off some of the accumulated mud. The old bastard could certainly give R. Lee Ermey a run for his money at times.

With a deep sigh Booth let the filthy, rolled up ghillie suit he'd been humping drop to his feet on the concrete. Then he carefully leaned the borrowed M40 sniper rifle, a highly modified M-14, against the wall of the small shack where he was waiting to use the landline phone because no personal cells were allowed on a training op. The damned jarheads sure took their camo seriously, he shook his head again as he kicked at the bundle by his feet. The horrible suit with all the crap hanging off it, plus all the water and sweat it absorbed, more than made up for the weight he was saving by carrying a lighter rifle than the one he was already training with for back in DC. But this was their turf.

He and the other guys joked they'd all be set if they ever had to sneak up on some damned fool in a farmhouse, or a crazed Cajun in the bayou, but it really wasn't a laughing matter after all. They couldn't assume they would always be operating in an urban area. As Army as Booth was, he had to admit the Marines knew their shit when it came to marksmanship. "Every Marine a rifleman" wasn't just a slogan. A Marine up front finished his call, and the short queue advanced by one. Worn out, Booth left his gear where it lay, still in plain view.

The ordeal of all the training these last eight weeks was easily the hardest thing he'd done since Ranger training, in some ways harder than actual combat. "Train like you fight" they always said; well so far it had paid off so he shouldn't complain. But he was glad the light was at the end of the tunnel. He was more than ready to resume his real life as an agent, and in particular his partnership with Bones.

They had met that Sunday before he left for training, and ever since then it felt like their relationship, whatever the hell it was, was at some new plateau, with an openness that was liberating. They still bickered of course, but it was as if the most important things were already settled between them. If forced to be honest about it, he'd have to say it was something like a couple who found their bond was stronger than ever after surviving their first major knock-down, drag-out. Something similar seemed to be going on with their partnership, but he was hesitant to examine it too closely.

Regardless, he was eager to talk to her. He'd been out of pocket for a few days, and he'd come to regard their increasingly more frequent phone calls as his lifeline back to normality. She really was his anchor, their chats about his training alternating with her cases, on which she frequently invited his two cents. She really helped him stay grounded as an agent first, sniper second.

Although he did screw up once, he grinned to himself as the line advanced once more. He could tell she was miffed with him when she first realized he wouldn't always be operating at a safe distance as a sniper. He'd mistakenly taken the cross-training for granted, but he could tell she was upset when his description of some live fire exercises in CQB, close quarters battle, sank in. Still, in spite of her actually rather endearing concern, her support never wavered, and he was out of the doghouse quickly enough.

One other potential problem that had taken care of itself was Agent Williams. Cullen had told him Chad put in the transfer request himself, but reading between the lines he could only imagine what Bones had done once she'd had enough. Perhaps she'd tell him one day, but he'd probably never be able to squeeze it out of her. It must have been priceless. Perhaps Angela would let on… He should have known better, that Bones really could take care of herself. He felt himself smiling again at the thought.

He'd only been able to meet her a few times on the weekends, squeezing her in the few times they weren't doing extended drills or he wasn't busy with Parker. He was ready to see her in person again, but would have to settle for just her voice a little longer.

Finally, he got a turn at the phone, an ancient rotary dial model he was shocked to see. He dialed her cell number, but got her voicemail and hung up. He just didn't want to leave a message so he looked at the card in his wallet and called Angela.

"Montenegro", the artist answered at the other end.

"Hey, Angela, it's Booth."

"Hi there! It's been too long. When are you coming back?" she asked.

"I should be in later next week. Pardon me, but is Bones out on the floor? She didn't pick up her cell."

"Yep. I bet she left it on her desk. I'll get her for you," she answered.

"Thanks."

Booth smiled to himself while waiting. He had an idea how to celebrate his return with her, a special treat he thought she'd get a kick out of…

_Same Friday, 4:45PM, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab_

For once Brennan had allowed herself to indulge in the hallowed workplace tradition of slacking off before 5PM on a Friday. A few minutes earlier she'd shared Booth's plans for next Friday with Angela and had apparently made the regrettable mistake of betraying a little too much enthusiasm. She was certainly paying for it now.

"Sweetie, it's a date."

"It's not a date", denied Brennan. _Not this again._

"By my normal criteria you'd be right, but trust me, this time… it's a date", Angela countered.

"No, it's not", Brennan insisted.

"On a related note, tell me why haven't you been out on any other dates in the last two months? I haven't even busted you window shopping online lately." Angela was relentless.

Brennan really thought_, They all seem so shallow._ "I've been too busy" she actually replied.

"Whatever", Angela allowed, though with a skeptical roll of the eyes.

Hodgins materialized out of nowhere. "It is sooo a date, the Freudian implications should be self-evident."

She gave Angela a dirty look for running her mouth. She didn't actually ask her to keep it a secret, but still…

"No, it's not a date!" letting her annoyance show more forcefully.

"High probability it's a date", Zack chimed in from left field.

_Zack too?_

He continued, "Dr. Brennan, a study recently published in a peer reviewed journal showed a statistically significant positive correlation between handling firearms and a temporary rise in aggression indicative of an increase in testosterone levels in men. A non-platonic social outing seems like a reasonable interpretation of the evidence."

She glared at him, and he went back to at least appearing to mind his own business.

Hodgins wouldn't give it a rest.

"And what's Booth been doing for the last several weeks? Doing nothing but handling guns." Hodgins grinned like he'd closed the case. "_Lots_ of guns."

And apparently neither would Angela…

"Big, long ones", she added with a giggle.

Hodgins piled on again, "Kinda makes 'What's he packing?' a loaded question, doesn't it?" The two snickered at each other.

She finally blew up at Hodgins.

"For the last time, guys, it is not a date! We're going to the shooting range after a quick meal. We're just partners, and sometimes a gun is just a gun and not a metaphor for a penis! Even Freud said 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar'."

"Actually that quotation is now widely considered to be apocryphal," Zack chimed in once more.

Before she could turn on Zack, Hodgins adopted a rhetorical pose, one arm across his chest, other hand on his chin, eyes looking up at the ceiling, "Actually, I'm not sure which is sadder, a date at the shooting range, or spending Friday of all nights at a shooting range and its _not_ a date."

"I refuse to argue about this with you any more, you are all incorrigible!" As aggravated as she was, she was also fighting the urge to laugh, enjoying the quick wit that her intelligent colleagues shared.

"It _is_ a date," a new male voice confidently affirmed.

They all turned around in shock to view the source of the footsteps which they only now heard. They did a double-take, looking at each other then back to the speaker.

"Good evening, everyone. As much as it pains me I believe I must concur with Dr. Hodgins in this instance. Good night and have a pleasant weekend." Dr. Goodman turned about and walked away, hands clasped behind his back, his smile hidden from them.

**A/N**

**Once in a while the dialogue truly writes itself, thank God.**

**Please review. The next chapter may take a little longer.**

Oh, and apologies to Hawkeye Girl and others – Williams was never destined to be long for this world. He was a red herring from the get-go. The "let's make Booth jealous" theme while amusing at times, just didn't fit what I'm trying to do here. Thanks again.


	8. Reunion

**Revised 12/8**

_One week later…_

_Friday, 5:10PM, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab_

"Is not," Brennan muttered half-heartedly.

"Is too," Angela stage whispered.

Angela wouldn't give up, and Brennan was about worn out on the subject after being teased off and on all week. Just about the time she thought they'd forgotten about the shooting range 'date', one of the others would start it up again. Right now she was waiting for Booth to show up, trying to hide her eagerness. They'd only managed to meet for lunch a few times on weekends during his long training, given that what little free time he'd had was spent with Parker. They'd had to settle for calling each other, and their talks had grown so frequent that it had almost become a nightly ritual these past few weeks. However, she admitted, the telephone was a poor substitute for seeing him in person.

When he'd called five minutes before to say he was entering the parking lot, she'd offered to just come out to the parking area, but he insisted on coming inside. He said he actually missed the squints, something which normally would have pleased her, but not today. Still, she couldn't actually explain to him just why she wanted to bail out on them. So she was stuck. Here.

Hodgins had to get in one last shot too. "C'mon, I'm right, admit it. He wants to share his 'guns' with you", he made the quote signs with his fingers, "and you just can't wait to get your hands on them."

She didn't even bother replying to him because Booth had entered the far end of the corridor, his eyes already on her. She hadn't realized just how much she missed his subtle swagger, and it took a few seconds for the fact he wasn't in a suit to register. Instead he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with a leather jacket the color of dark chocolate with the FBI seal sewn on the left breast. She smiled to herself as Angela noticed too, if the elbow nudging her side was any indication. She tried to ignore the jitters she was feeling; after all there was no reason for them – he was just her long lost partner.

- -

Booth felt the stupid grin spreading across his face as he finally reached his goal, oblivious at first to the squints also gathering around. She sure was a sight for sore eyes. He hadn't thought about exactly what he was going to do at this moment, but he suddenly had the powerful urge to pick up Bones in a bear hug and swing her around, he was so happy to be back. However, he knew she wouldn't appreciate being pawed on, particularly in front of her colleagues, so he decided to follow her cue. He didn't think she did PDA.

"Hey, Bones."

- -

"Hi, Booth."

After vacillating for the last half hour as to whether or not she should give him a hug in front of the others, she had finally decided to go for it and do what _she_ really wanted for a change. But apparently she hesitated just a second too long…

Angela innocently enough stepped in her way, "Hey yourself, Booth!" and gave the agent a big hug. Brennan was thrown off, suddenly made self-conscious, and she stood rooted as Booth met Hodgins' "Long time, no see, man", with a crushing handshake. When Zack said, "Welcome back, Agent Booth," and extended his hand, Booth started to shake it then apparently thought better of it and instead tousled her assistant's hair like a kid's with a big laugh, in his good humor oblivious to the fact Zack was mortified. But Booth was already ignoring the others, looking at her, his hands slightly extended in anticipation of a hug.

Brennan was frozen, her momentum gone, over-thinking as usual. The old negative voice taunted her, "Once a wallflower, always a wallflower, but at least your co-workers won't tease you." _Shut up!_ she finally mustered, but it was too late, the 'spontaneous' moment had passed as he put his hands back safely on his hips. She didn't miss the brief flicker of disappointment which he tried to hide with a smile.

Hodgins took her off the hook, but not in a way she wished.

"So, Booth, what are you packing tonight?"

"A bit more than usual. Do you wanna see it?" He didn't see Angela's elbow to Hodgins, but couldn't possibly miss Zack's titter at his answer. He turned to Zack, his brow wrinkling in distaste as he vaguely realized he was the butt of some joke.

"Grown men don't 'tee hee', and anyway it's Friday night. Don't you have a date washing some test tubes or something?"

Chastised, Zack went back to preparing his specimens for storage over the weekend.

Blushing and desperate to change the subject, Brennan remembered the message she'd almost forgotten.

"Booth, Goodman asked if you'd stop by his office for some hardcopies he signed for Cullen. Why don't you go ahead and do that now so we don't forget?"

"Sure", he said.

Angela jumped in, "That is an awesome leather jacket you've got there, Booth. Much, much better than those tacky blue and gold 'FBI' windbreakers you guys put on at crime scenes. Can I see it?"

Sometimes Brennan truly envied her effortless forward manner with men.

"Thanks", said Booth. "Sure. Here ya go." He took it off to hand it to her. "Actually I wish I had a windbreaker tonight. It's not quite cool enough for this thing."

Several pairs of eyes widened as they saw that the jacket had been hiding not just his shoulder holster but another full frame automatic pistol in holster high on his right hip. Then as he turned around and left to go see Goodman they saw the grip of a revolver tucked into the back of his pants.

Hodgins spoke first…

"Well I guess _that_ answers my question." He turned to Brennan, "Are you going to the shooting range or a gang war?"

Angela was already brazenly wearing the leather jacket, checking out the detail work. "This is really nice." She was working her way around the jacket and paused at a smaller gray and black badge sewn high on one shoulder that had a stooping eagle grasping a chain in its talons.

"Servare Vitas", she read upside down.

Zack translated, "To save lives."

"Holy crap, let me see that." Hodgins went and took Angela's arm to see the sleeve for himself.

He looked accusingly at Brennan. "You didn't say Booth was HRT."

She gave him a confused look.

"HRT, Hostage Rescue Team", he clarified.

"I knew he was on a hostage rescue team but it never registered that that was the actual name of a specific unit," she answered.

"HRT is the federal government's closest civilian equivalent to the Army's Delta Force, the big leagues. They're prepared to be called up and in action inside of four hours anywhere in the lower forty-eight states." He rubbed his hands together, the conspiracy buff clearly warming to his subject. "Did you know that?"

Brennan said, "Yes, but he's really just a backup; his main responsibility is here around DC."

"Well I tend to prefer the conspiracies of the left, and don't buy any of the far right's nonsense about the Trilateral Commission helping the UN take over the US, but they're right about HRT. This is real black helicopter stuff. Black clad government thugs with guns and no regard for civil rights. Get him to tell you about HRT's role in Waco or at Ruby Ridge."

"He has told me a little about them", she said quietly, but Hodgins was on a righteous tear, not really listening anymore.

"Booth's got the bloody skills they need; I just didn't know he would do it."

Brennan defended him, "There is no way, no way whatsoever, he would be part of anything like that. You're wrong."

Angela moved closer to her and joined in, "Jack, you know Booth's one of the good guys…"

Hodgins rounded on them both, his intensity a little creepy, voice rising, "Some of those wars he was in, overt and covert, required doing some pretty nasty things, perhaps even somewhat justifiably. But if he's capable of doing it over there then he's capable of doing it over here."

Just then Booth came back, clearly concerned by the raised voices.

"Is something wrong?" He looked at Bones intently.

"No, everything's fine, right Hodgins?" she answered, hoping he would take the hint.

"Like hell it is!" he responded. "Come on, Booth, tell 'em about Ruby Ridge and Waco and your fellow killers. How about the Rules of Engagement at Ruby Ridge 'If you see 'em, shoot 'em'?"

Booth replied evenly at first, "Yes, Hodgins, there were some horrible screwups, even some outright abuses, but we have actually been studying them in our training to prevent repeats in the future."

But the 'funny little man' was having none of it, overcome by his righteous indignation. He tapped Booth on the chest, "I wouldn't expect you to say anything else. You just joined the Rethuglican death squad, pal, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. Fascists are the same everywhere."

Booth flushed and started losing his cool too, "Hello! The Waco fuckup happened on YOUR guys' watch! And our transport choppers are no longer painted low observable black because of over-excitable idiots just like you!" He jabbed back, " Pal!" He said the last as scornfully as possible.

"JACK!" Brennan called, but he didn't hear, caught up as he was. She gave Angela a look pleading for help to keep Hodgins from ruining everything, but the artist looked back just as helplessly.

Hodgins kept going, perhaps not the wisest thing against a larger man wearing three guns, he would later tell her ruefully.

"Tell them, Booth, about Lon Horiuchi, the HRT sniper who killed Vickie Weaver at Ruby Ridge while she was unarmed and holding a ten month old baby! He murdered her with a perfect headshot and then claimed it was an accident even though he could routinely hit a quarter from 200 meters, the same range! Tell him I said hello at your next reunion!" he practically spat.

Brennan knew Booth was about to acknowledge the troubling case of Horiuchi when Hodgins punched one of his buttons, big time, jabbing old wounds only partially healed…

He practically shouted, "You bunch of killers can casually kill women and children overseas and just dismiss it as 'collateral damage', but there's something called the Bill of Rights over here!"

_Uh-oh._ Booth turned pale now, about as angry as she had ever seen him.

He leaned in and grated, "You. Have. No. Idea. What. You're. Talking. About."

Brennan stepped in and placed both hands on his chest. _"Please"_, she implored.

She caught his eye and he nodded, trying to regain control of himself. He took in a deep breath and let it out raggedly.

At the same time Angela grabbed Hodgins by the arm and yanked him away forcefully.

Booth loudly announced, " I've had enough of this bullshit. I'll be outside." He walked out rapidly.

Hodgins had to yell at his departing back, "I'm just speaking truth to power, man!"

Booth's only reply was a raised fist with middle finger extended as he turned the corner without looking back.

Brennan's eyes stung. _I will not cry. I don't do 'upset', I get angry. _Her 'not a date' was ruined.

She gave Hodgins a look that should have turned him into ash wafting on the air currents of the lab's ventilation system, but he was impervious in his still roused state. She would give him a piece of her mind later, but she had more important things to deal with at the moment.

She sadly looked at Zack, who was speechless, then Angela who handed her the leather jacket. She hurried after Booth.

- -

Hodgins was still pumped on adrenaline, almost giddy. "…speaking truth to power man!"

Angela turned away from him, heartbroken for Brennan. "Keep up like this and you'll be speaking to nobody, least of all me."

**A/N**

**Please don't forget to review!!!**


	9. Not a Date

_Same Friday, 5:30PM_

Brennan approached the SUV, clutching the folded leather jacket to her with both arms in a surrogate hug. _If only it were that simple._ Although tonight was supposed to be Booth's treat, she felt responsible for figuring out something to help salvage their evening. The absolutely last thing on Earth she wanted to happen was for him to have a reason to regret coming back to their partnership, to her. _Damn Hodgins._

Booth was slowly pacing back and forth in front of the vehicle, so lost in thought he didn't notice her approach until she was almost upon him. He gave a slight start then grinned at her reflexively in spite of his mood. The grin then became a sheepish one when he noticed she carried his jacket.

"Thanks", he reached for it and put it on, settling it on his shoulders. "I wasn't looking forward to going back in there for it. It'd kinda spoil my grand exit." He gave her a wink and a sickly version of his 'charm' smile.

"No problem", she replied, thankful his anger seemed to have abated somewhat.

He pulled his keys out of the jacket's right pocket and jangled them at her, chuckling at himself, before clicking the remote to unlock the SUV and going around to open the passenger door for her. In his distraction he forgot that she preferred to get her own door, but she knew that now was not the time to balk, and instead accepted his courtesy for what it was.

She climbed up and buckled herself in as he closed her door for her, and she waited for him to come around and climb into the driver's seat and start the vehicle before speaking.

"I'm sorry, Booth."

"What? No… no, you don't have anything to apologize for, it's not your fault." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I should be the one apologizing. I ought to know how Hodgins can get by now, and I'm sorry I let him get to me. I only made it worse."

Here she was supposed to be calming him down, and he was apologizing to _her_.

"Still, he had no right…" she insisted.

"No argument there." He waited until he had turned out of the drive and on to Independence before continuing. He turned from watching traffic briefly to look at her, his expression contrite, "But I really wanted us to have fun tonight. I should have controlled myself better."

He changed the subject briefly, eyes back on the road, "It'll take us about an hour and a half to get to the range. There's several restaurants nearby, so I figured we'd wait until then to eat. Unless you're too hungry now." He glanced her way.

"No, I don't have any appetite right now." It was the honest truth after what had just happened.

"Me neither", he softly agreed.

She squelched her normal impulse to know all the details about where they were going, and instead she waited quietly, knowing the air needed to be cleared further. He was not looking at her as he maneuvered through rush hour traffic, but she could tell he was about to speak.

"There was one thing he said that really got to me, that I almost blew my top over… Hodgins and his 'collateral damage'". He added the last bitterly.

Booth looked at her again, "Several months ago you asked me a question that I never really answered. It's time I did." She nodded encouragingly, and he looked back at the road before continuing.

"Our squad was one of a handful of Ranger units in Kurdistan in the year after Desert Storm, in the northern No-Fly zone. Supposedly there were no US boots on the ground other than humanitarian relief, but we were working with the Kurdish soldiers, the peshmerga, giving them some training and support in their fight to keep Saddam's forces out. We were based in a safe area pretty near the no man's land, but we weren't supposed to take direct action ourselves, although we did provide some sniper support."

He glanced her way to see she was following…

"The Iraqi intel crew was pretty good, and a couple times they infiltrated people to make things interesting for us, one time in particular…" His voice trailed off for a moment.

Booth looked at her again, eyes troubled, wanting her to understand, "The two of them weren't targets. It was an accident, you see?" He realized he'd got ahead himself, and went on to explain, looking back at the road, not really seeing it…

"One morning we were walking through the village near the market on the way to rendezvous with a new unit we were going to train. An infiltrator shot at us from the edge of the crowd in an alley leading into the bazaar. Our Kurdish interpreter and one of our guys went down in the middle of the street. Our medic ran to help them as the rest of us scanned for the shooter. He came under fire too, and I saw the shooter half hiding behind a woman and her son against a wall near the last vendor's stall. He became exposed as the rest of the crowd was screaming, backing away, and I had a clear though tight shot, since I was back, offset at an angle. I got off a snap shot and nailed him."

He paused, clearing his throat…

"Problem was, either he saw me and started to move, or she did. But my reflexes had taken over and I tracked him perfectly in that fraction of a second. My round clipped her right here." He pointed to the left side of his neck. "The boy was ok."

"Her carotid artery?", she asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes. Blew it out. She was dead in seconds."

She gently prodded him. "You said two." She finally remembered her question from the time they dealt with the homeless Vietnam vet living underground. "She was pregnant?" she asked softly.

"We didn't even see it at first because of her traditional robes, but someone in the crowd with a little English cried out 'Baby, baby!' and was pointing to her stomach. The village had no real doctor, but they rounded up the mid-wife who performed a makeshift C-section. It was too late. She was about five months along. They weren't even very mad at us because they were our hosts and had failed to protect us." He grimaced, "That almost made it worse."

He added, "So to hell with Hodgins and his collateral damage. There's nothing goddamned 'casual' about it."

"I'm so sorry, Seeley." She reached out a hand toward him.

He dismissed it with a sigh, "That was all a long time ago." But he took her hand and held it tightly for the next several miles, which passed in silence, before letting go.

She finally broke the tension, "Sometimes Angela says his middle name must be 'Ass'."

He was baffled for half a second then caught on. He found himself laughing more than the modest joke deserved, eager for an excuse to lighten up. He gave her his most charming smile, grateful to her for trying to break him out of his mood.

She responded with a single bark of a laugh that was half sob. Perhaps their 'not a date' would be ok after all. It felt good to be simply smiling at each other again.

"Speaking of asses…" It was her turn for a double take, wondering where he could possibly be going with that.

"Just whatever happened with Chad?" he finished.

"Who?" she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

So she was going to be coy about it, Booth thought. He'd have to coax it out of her. "You might remember him as Agent Williams."

She made a great show of racking her brains. "Ah, _him_. He appeared to be suffering from a degenerative neurological disorder."

He enjoyed played along, "Symptoms?"

"The first sign was apparent hearing loss coupled with some possible cognitive impairment."

"He couldn't or wouldn't get it that you weren't buying his lines", he interpreted out loud.

She smiled and kept up the act. "Next he exhibited a pattern of diminished depth perception."

He had to think about that one a second. "He kept invading your personal space?" He started scowling.

She nodded with an approving grin. "The next stage in the progression involved a loss of coordination, motor skills, as he began bumping into me more frequently."

He got that one right away. "Why that cheesy sonuvabitch! If he laid a finger on you I'll…"

She reached out and squeezed his forearm, a twinkle in her eye. "Further intervention isn't required. The problem soon resolved itself."

"What? How?" he sputtered, indignant on her behalf.

She answered him with her biggest grin yet, "His clumsiness worsened until he had another accident, coming about this close…" she held up her thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart, "to a dislocated shoulder."

**A/N**

**Please review! The 'not a date' continues…**


	10. Not a Date 2

**Author's keeps goofing up on me, reverting to showing the story without the latest chapters for some reason. If you click on my name to get to my author page there you may see the most recent additions properly.**

**Minor edits made.**

_Same Friday, 6:45PM_

The mood in the SUV continued to brighten as they continued talking about anything and nothing, both determined to will away the earlier unpleasantness as the miles rolled by.

Booth had decided to skip the practice range right inside the Hoover Building there in downtown DC to avoid any work-related BS or wagging tongues, not to mention not giving Cullen any ammo given his opinion of Bone's track record with guns. Instead he opted for a private indoor range at a gun shop he sometimes used on the Virginia side. Fortunately she didn't seem to take any offense.

For a meal along the way he suggested a hole-in-the-wall Thai place he knew, and she was willing to give it a try. They seated themselves and continued chatting while waiting for the waitress.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it by the lab until tonight", he apologized. He had really hated being unable to make time sooner.

"What did Cullen have you doing since you got back Wednesday?" she asked.

"Well it felt like most of Thursday was spent listening to him bitch and moan about how I left him short-handed for most of four months." They both chuckled at that. "Mostly I've been double-checking the work other agents did on some of the case I had to hand off while I was in training. I think we should be back in action by the middle of next week." He smiled, not trying at all to hide how eager he was. It warmed him to see she felt the same way, if the smile she mirrored was any indication. They sat in silence sharing the moment.

He was saved from looking like a complete idiot by the arrival of the waitress with water glasses. The menus were already in the booth so they went ahead and ordered, first the drinks then the food. They had settled on the same thing, a spicy dish with shrimp and vegetables over rice noodles.

The petite waitress asked Brennan, "How spicy do you want that? How many stars?" She pointed to the spiciness scale in a sidebar on the menu.

Brennan thought briefly then played it safe and replied, "I'll have mine three stars, please."

Since he was familiar with the place Booth knew what he wanted, "Make mine four stars. Thanks." The waitress turned to take their order to the kitchen."

"Excuse me, miss." Bones called her back. She looked at him with mischief in her eye. "You're just playing some male dominance game." She turned to the waitress, "Miss, please change mine to five stars." She upped the ante. Her smug expression was clearly daring Booth to come out and play.

He laughed out loud. God, how he loved the way she challenged him. It used to be so annoying but now it was endearing, well _most_ of the time. And her rare playful moments were something he'd come to cherish. He leaned forward and wagged a finger at her.

"I know exactly what you're up to. You think you've got me trapped in a dilemma. And I thought you had no use for psychology." Her lips pursed, trying to hold back a grin. He remembered the waitress, "If you'll excuse us for moment." He turned back, his attention only on the woman across from him.

He leaned back in his seat and went in to his analysis, arms crossed. "On the one hand, if I top you and go to six stars, aside from needing a mouth transplant, I'll have only confirmed for you that I'm just a predictable Neanderthal alpha male."

She tried in vain to keep a poker face, enjoying seeing him at work using his skills.

He continued, "On the other hand, I can stand pat, but even though your personal opinion is that the whole thing is stupid, I'd know that _you'd_ know that I knew I lost to a girl. You play the game yourself, even while mocking it." He smiled in admiration at her gall.

She finally nodded, laughing at his insight. He saw right through her. _What else did he see?_ she wondered. "So you think you have it all figured out?"

He continued, chuckling along with her, "You think you've got me coming and going, that it's lose-lose for me, but the solution to my dilemma is right under your nose."

She thought, _What?_

He sat forward again, expression serious now, leaned toward her across the table, and touched her hand. He didn't quite know what came over him, but he didn't want to play any more, and instead was simply totally honest. He looked her directly in the eye.

"Bones, I don't ever want to dominate you. We're _partners_. Equals." He even surprised himself with how he strongly felt that way once the words were said.

She was utterly disarmed. She suddenly knew, _knew_, what he was going to do next. She would have never guessed that such a simple, silly thing would mean so much to her.

"Miss!" He called the waitress back and changed his order to five stars, exactly the same as hers.

**A/N**

**Please let me know if I still have my Bones mojo with your reviews. They really do motivate me to keep going when I bog down, or as has happened a couple of times, the characters tug me in unexpected directions, or unexpected ways of getting there.**


	11. Range

**A/N A present for those who wanted a longer chapter…**

**REVISED 11/20/2006 -- I realized I was being a little unnecessarily PC at one point so I edited. Tweaked some more 11/27.**

_Same Friday, 7:40PM_

Booth decided discretion was the better part of valor and didn't comment on the number of glasses of tea Bones drank with her meal. Though the place was no threat to Sid's, he was really tickled that she gave the place a thumb's up, world traveler that she was. He'd been a world traveler too, in a sense, but Uncle Sam wasn't known for his meal plan. He was enjoying her soothing presence so much he would have happily lingered, but she was eager to be off to the range and shooting.

Once they paid and left the restaurant the range was only ten minutes further down the road. When they got out she was about to go charging in when she noticed him pulling a large Halliburton Zero anodized aluminum case from behind his seat.

"What's in there?" she asked, eager with anticipation. She figured it had to be even more different kinds of handguns. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and he returned her smile with a large one of his own.

"Patience, Bones. All good things in time." He had one more trick up his sleeve that he hoped would help her finish forgetting how badly their evening started.

When they went in the clerk, who was waiting on another customer at the counter, noticed them and looked up to wave, "Hey, Seeley! It's sure been a while. Just gimme a minute."

Booth waved back and explained to Bones, "That's Tommy, the owner." She waved also, and he led her to an empty area on the long glass display case containing all sorts of pistols, where he set his gun case on the counter.

"So what are we shooting tonight?" she asked, eyeing the silver case like a kid given the first present to unwrap on Christmas morning. The image suited him because he wanted nothing more than to make her happy. Her interest was so refreshing compared to other women he had known, who almost universally thought his guns were tainted, dirty, rather than simply tools, especially Tessa. And, he supposed, at some level it must have been reflected in what they ultimately thought of him. But not Bones. He made himself quit woolgathering.

He touched his shoulder holster, "Well, my service pistol of course." He winked at her, acknowledging the fact guns had frequently been a bone of contention between them when on the case. She rolled her eyes back at him, but with a smile. He then pulled out the other big black automatic from his hip holster so she could see it. "Dad gave me this Para-Ordnance .45 for Desert Storm because the G.I. 9mm Berettas were crap, assuming you could even get one." He re-holstered it.

"And the .44 Magnum," which revolver he pulled from the back of his waist and showed her before replacing it for the moment. "Now no Dirty Harry jokes," he admonished teasingly. "I doubt your Clint Eastwood is any better than your John Wayne."

She stuck her tongue out at him, remembering his groan the one time she'd impersonated Wayne. But one part didn't compute, "Who's Dirty Harry?"

"Oh, come on now! You know who Eastwood is but don't know his character Harry Callahan, patron saint of fed up cops everywhere?" She shook her head. "How about 'Make my day?" he quoted. She shook her head again. "'Do you feel lucky, punk?'" Another shake of the head.

He groaned and rubbed his temples as if she'd given him a headache. "Well that's it. I'm formally going to startup the Seeley Booth Film Festival of Pop Culture Classics." She opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off. "How can you possibly cozy up to a suspect and pump him for info without him realizing it unless you can make passable small talk?" That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.

"Well I suppose if it helps to understand the suspect's proper milieu…" She smiled and agreed, not really needing her arm twisted, "Ok, it's a date." She held out her hand.

He made a show of shaking her hand. "Yes, it is." In more ways than one, he thought to himself. _Hopefully several._

She returned to the subject at hand. "Ok, now would you _please_ tell me what's in the case?"

He tapped the big case, "I'll show you. Some more guns with a lot of history behind them."

Brennan inched closer to him as he entered the combination and unlatched it and brought out the first weapon, a big revolver.

"This is the .45 caliber British Webley that my great-grandfather Harris, on mom's side, brought back from France in World War I. You can see instead of having the usual swing-out cylinder it breaks open like a shotgun." He demonstrated the action and then pointed to a metal swivel at the base of the grip. "This ring was for a lanyard that tied the pistol to your belt so that if you dropped it in a fight you wouldn't lose it in the mud in the bottom of the trenches. He said it saved his ass more than once. I have a few memories of him as an old man when I was a kid."

He handed her the pistol and she accepted it reverently, inspecting it. It was obvious that it had been maintained meticulously, preserved with love. Other than the wear and tear it must have received in its day, there was almost nothing to indicate it was at least ninety years old.

"He never cared for those new-fangled 1911 Colt .45 automatics." She looked up and met his grin before carefully setting the Webley down on the pad on the glass counter there for that purpose. "We'll just shoot a few rounds through that one. I had it x-rayed for micro-fractures and it's still safe. The rest of them we can shoot as much as we want tonight."

She watched him pull out the next one, a blue-black revolver with a slender barrel, which he immediately gave to her.

"After the war he became a cop in Philly, then in the Depression he went on to become one of Hoover's first G-men, although he didn't make any of the history books like Elliot Ness. This is his FBI-issued Colt .38 Special that they let him keep when he retired."

It was clear he was immensely proud of his family's tradition of service, and she was humbled he was sharing it with her.

As she set the Colt down he pulled out another classic she recognized from the World War II movies and documentaries she had seen. His mood became more sober, reflective.

"This is the German Luger 9mm Parabellum that my Grandpa Booth got when he went ashore at Anzio Beach. That same day he lost his childhood best friend who'd enlisted with him. Later he went ashore in the second wave at Normandy."

He was an honorable man from a line of honorable men, she considered, but the mocking voice of the over analyzing anthropologist returned. "Since when has 'honor' been anything other than an abstract concept useful in describing one component of the dynamics of tribal male status hierarchies?" _Since I've come to know him,_ she rebuked.

Booth demonstrated the Luger's unique toggle action it had instead of the more typical slide of most automatics. She laid it down gently as well.

The next one was medium sized automatic with an odd flattened oval on the grip apparently for the user's thumb. "That's a Soviet 9mm Makarov Dad brought back from Vietnam, a souvenir he bought in Saigon. He had four air-to-air kills. He was shot down once but escaped capture."

She accepted the pistol, wondering what it must have been like for Booth to grow up with the very real threat of death hanging over his father. She hoped he was too young at the time to really remember.

The anthropologist was back, mocking, "Objects have no intrinsic power. He is just showing you his clan totems." _Shut up._ She would have accepted that terminology before, but no more. She saw that these guns were tangible reminders of real people important to this very real man in front of her. Powerful connections just like her mother's earrings. For the first time she truly understood some of what years of study had failed to properly teach her, and she regretted her unwitting condescension toward the primitive tribes she had studied. _And to hell with Hodgins and his phallic symbols!_ She shook her head and made herself devote her full attention to Booth.

There was only one gun left in the case, one which seemed out of place beside the others, a smaller silvery nickel-plated "cowboy" style revolver, probably a .22 in her estimation.

He pulled it out. "This old single-action Ruger will be Parker's first pistol some day." He paused. "When I turned ten Dad and Grandpa took me out in the country and taught me how to shoot with it. We must have shot a million tin cans that summer," he recalled fondly.

He held on to it in silence, looking down at it laying in both hands for a long time, finally softly uttering, "God, I miss them both," voice cracking slightly. When he looked up at her to hand it over she could see that the emotional rollercoaster of the evening had taken its toll, he was so vulnerable. "I wish you could have met them." His eyes seemed to be searching hers for something…

Her eyes started to blur in return, but she fought it back. She placed her hands on his, the cool steel of the revolver contrasting with the warmth of his skin. Hodgins' rant and the bad memories it dredged up must have cut him deeper than she thought for him to need to reassure himself about his part in the legacy. What to say to him? _You are not an anthropologist, but a woman who does have a heart. Use it! _

She spoke tenderly, "You're right to be proud of them, and I know they would be proud of you too." He nodded, accepting her judgement. "_I'm_ proud of you." He looked back up and smiled at her. "And I know some day, for his children and grandchildren, Parker will be proud to include your name in that list."

At that he was nearly undone by her understanding.

She took the revolver from his hands and set it on the counter without taking her eyes off him. Booth finally got that bone-crushing hug he so desperately craved, and which she'd been aching to give him.

- - - - - - - - -

While he was waiting for Tommy to pull the ammo on his list and ring it up along with the range fee, Booth leaned back against the counter watching Bones on the other side while she looked at the various handguns under the glass and the rifles in cabinets behind the counter. Again he found her enthusiasm refreshing, her intensity when focused on something, hell anything, increasingly attractive. Lord knows she now understood him like no other woman ever had, which in itself was an incredible experience.

Tommy interrupted his reverie, "I'm out of Federal in the .38 Special, is Remington ok?"

"Sure."

Tessa would have never been caught dead here. He was touched by the way Bones was protective of his gun case, never straying far from it.

He then noticed a couple other patrons who had just come in checking her out and was about to go over and make it clear she was with him when Tommy was finished. "That'll be $124.95"

He turned and handed over his American Express. "I'll also need a loaner hearing protector and some shooting glasses", Booth said. His were in the gun case, but he didn't have an extra set for Bones.

"Sure, Seeley." Tommy rooted around in a couple of drawers and produced the gear. He also placed on the counter several silhouette targets, rolled up. "On the house." Booth nodded his thanks. He had known him for years – he took care of his antiques. The shop owner was also a Desert Storm vet who'd learned the gunsmithing trade as an armorer in the Army.

"That was some moment you had with your girlfriend over there a few minute ago. Nice lookin' by the way, if you don't mind my sayin'. First time I've seen you with a woman in here." Tommy handed Booth back his credit card and the authorization slip to sign.

"She's not my girlfriend, she's my partner at work", Booth denied. Tommy merely gave him a skeptical look. "Uh… it's really complicated." It was different hearing someone else use out loud the word he'd just been starting to mull over privately. He was only beginning to admit to himself that he was more than just deeply fond of her.

"Well she sure looks like she would be, if you wanted." Tommy wasn't ready to give up just yet.

Booth fired back, grinning, "What ever happened to 'Service with a smile' instead of busting the customer's balls?"

"I'm smilin', ain't I? Last time my ex held on to me like that it was only at the _beginning_ of our honeymoon. I'm just sayin'…"

"Kiss my ass", Booth retorted, still grinning as he put his credit card and the receipt in his wallet.

"Back atcha." Tommy moved down the counter toward another customer. "Lemme know if you need anything else."

He waved his thanks and picked up the steel shopping basket, heavy with the boxes of ammunition, and headed back over to Bones. She was leaning way over, peering at the contents of a display case full of World War I memorabilia, including a rare "broom handle" Mauser automatic. Her trademark chunky necklace was clinking against the glass, and he presumed she was oblivious to the view she was presenting to the rest of the shop. Ever since he'd met her he'd found her quite attractive, but given their prickly start it quickly became obvious it was merely of academic interest. But tonight he was more and more aware of her unique beauty in a decidedly non-academic manner.

He quit arguing with himself and just decided to be a guy and enjoy the way her thin slacks draped across the soft curves of her rear. As he watched, she shifted her stance slightly, resulting in a slight, pleasing jiggle over her toned muscles. _That's gotta be a thong._ He enjoyed ogling a shapely ass as much as the next guy, but he was unprepared for just how hard it hit him. Bones was no random babe on the sidewalk. She was a little wider at the hip and thigh than was probably considered 'fashionable', but that coupled with her trim waist flipped a switch deep in his brain: he was looking at a real _woman,_ not some sixteen year old, a woman in her prime with everything that implied. No doubt she'd chalk it up to visual fertility cues or some such crap, but, suddenly, he found Bones, the whole woman, incredibly alluring. He shook his head and looked away, trying to cool off. _Down, boy._

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one her pose was affecting. When Booth looked around he made eye contact with a very well dressed man in his early fifties who gave him a little nod and a grin in shared appreciation, one Booth quickly cut off with a glare.

As he reached her he gave into an urge he had been suppressing – he reached out and placed a hand on her waist as low as he felt he could get away with. As she straightened up, without pulling away he was pleased to note, he surveyed the room, annoyed to see at least four heads quickly turning down to examine various items intently. A glance at Tommy showed a shit-eating grin, which earned him a scowl too.

As she turned to smile warmly at him, he had no problem shrugging off his irritation with the gawkers – he could hardly blame them after all – and focused only on her.

"Ready to go punch some holes in paper?" he asked as he let go of her waist to take the gun case in his other hand.

"Sure!" She surprised him by looping an arm through his.

They had a blast.

**A/N**

**I'm assuming Booth's father is dead, given the way he was described only in past tense in The Woman in Limbo.**

**Even though I got the main hook pretty early, this chapter was tough to put together. Let me know if I succeeded.**


	12. Ride

_Same Friday Night 11:30PM…_

On the ride back to the lab to Bones' car, Booth had plenty of time for reflection. She had been yawning, and he didn't disturb her as she fell asleep. She looked like she needed it, her fair skin clearly showing the beginnings of dark circles under her eyes. If she was true to form she'd been overworking herself between the lab, writing, and whatever else she was driven to do. Yet asleep her face looked so peaceful…

He eyed his leather jacket with which he'd covered her. Nothing made him happier than when he could take care of her, but she was ordinarily so strong and independent that he didn't often get the chance. Usually it required some dire circumstance. Or, he noted with a rueful grin, a state of unconsciousness.

He had a wonderful time tonight, and he thought she had too. She had some natural talent and was an eager student, interested in what he could add to her existing skill at shooting. He had to admit it was good for his male ego to get a chance to be the unquestioned expert in her eyes for a change. And after his initial annoyance wore off, the fact that the other men continued to check her out when they thought he wasn't looking tickled him. She was by far the best looking woman in the place – a couple others had shown up later – and she was with _him_. He'd never seen her as a trophy, but he wasn't _that_ far removed from a Neanderthal, he grinned to himself.

These last few months he'd treasured their increasing closeness as her barriers continued to lower for him. Much of that had taken place over the telephone, a growing emotional closeness. In a strange way he selfishly hoped she didn't change too much – he admitted to himself that knowing she was not that open with people in general made his own deepening connection with her feel that much more special, privileged. But now that he was back, with her, he was unprepared for how captivated he was by _physical_ closeness to her – her soothing touches, the warmth of her embrace, even just being in her personal space working on her stance and aim shooting tonight. Although that worked both ways – he rubbed the bruise on his ribs she gave him when she realized just how badly he'd suckered her the first time she saw him shoot. He felt his growing feelings for her crystallizing into something more than friendship.

She was like no other woman he had been with. So practical, tonight she gladly helped load the pistol magazines with cartridges even though the strong springs and sharp edges of the stamped sheet metal tended to tear up your fingers. By contrast Tessa would have balked right off the bat, bitching about ruining an $80 manicure. Sometimes Bones could be practical to a fault, apparently lacking sentiment, but he now knew that it was not true, that underneath the surface a woman of real warmth was hiding. Loss had made her frugal with her feelings, but she did have them, even if she sometimes tried to deny them even to herself.

He finally admitted to himself, unequivocally, that he was flat out falling for her, and falling hard. Yes, he wanted to be something more than just partners, friends. But what on Earth to do about it? Hell, he still had to pretend that tonight was not a real 'date', just an outing between friends. _Shee-it._ There was the whole co-worker thing complicating her existing baggage. Complicated didn't begin to describe the situation. Did she have feelings for him in return? The answer to that one was arguably yes, he wouldn't have come to this pass if it weren't for the feedback loop between them, but was she _aware_ of them? Would she _let_ herself be aware of them? Finally, would she let herself follow those feelings where they led?

It was risky, like crossing a friggin' minefield risky, but this was one gamble he decided he was going to take. She was the best thing that had ever come his way. He sighed. He was just going to have to take it slowly, glacially slowly, testing his way at each step, trying to read her. If at all possible he didn't want to endanger their partnership. He'd fold if he had to, but he couldn't just stand pat. He resolved himself to inching his way forward in order to avoid triggering her defense mechanisms. But forward to what? He'd settle for their current deep friendship if he had to, but he wanted a real relationship. He'd die if he fell into the trap of an 'on occasion I sleep with them' guy she could just put back on the shelf if he got too close. Ultimately he was an all or nothing guy.

His next step? He just knew he didn't want the night to end, that he didn't want to wait until some time in the coming week to see her again. Or, selfishly, to have to share her with the squints when he did. What to do? An idea began to form…

A couple miles from the lab he pulled into a drive-thru. He woke her while awaiting his turn to order. He took her warm hand where it had slipped out from under his jacket and began squeezing and gently shaking it.

"Wake up, sleepy head."

She stirred groggily, then started more or less fully alert. She was clearly disoriented for a moment before settling down and trying to delicately hide a yawn behind her other hand.

"I fell asleep? I'm sorry." She reproved him, "You should have made me stay awake to keep you company while you drove." She rubbed at her eyes.

"Nah, you looked like you needed your beauty rest." As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how that sounded. Inwardly he cringed. _Smooth move, dumbass!_ Fortunately she didn't take it the wrong way. But he couldn't resist teasing her after all.

"Anyway, do you know you're cute when you drool?" He was looking ahead through the windshield as the car in front of them moved and it was their turn to advance.

She sat up straighter, indignant, "I do not drool!"

"I know, I know, just kidding." He patted her hand and gave her his best smile then looked forward again. He really was just pulling her leg, but it amused him to no end to see out of the corner of his eye that she had dabbed at the corners of her mouth when she thought he wasn't looking.

He continued more seriously this time, "We stopped for some coffee for the ride home. No point firing three hundred rounds without incident only to end up in a car accident."

She smiled in gratitude at his thoughtfulness. She said, "Thanks" when they reached the window and he passed her her cup, but then she insisted on paying for both. She'd pleasantly surprised him earlier in the evening by not arguing over paying for her own dinner or at the range, so now he broke one of his own rules and let her pay. If it made her comfortable to maintain their charade that this was not a 'date' then so be it; it suited his larger purpose. But sooner or later – ok, probably later, much later, he grudgingly admitted to himself – he vowed he was going to take her out on an old-fashioned let-out-all-the-stops honest to God wine-her-and-dine-her date.

Back in the lot at the lab he pulled in next to her car and shut off the engine of the SUV. He turned to her, "I had a great time tonight and I hope you did too. It's good to be home. Thanks."

She looked right into his eyes, "I most definitely did. It was a real treat. Thank you." She paused briefly, "I'm glad you're back, Seeley."

If he was a dog he'd be wagging his tail. It was such a treat when they used each other's real first name. Time to push it a little, he returned the favor, "The pleasure was all mine, Temperance."

She smiled more fully he was pleased to see. Not calling her Bones apparently had the desired effect. She unlocked and opened her door, and he got out at the same time as she did. He met her next to her car.

"You didn't need to get out. I'm not in danger of getting mugged in less than twenty feet", she mocked.

"I know you're a big girl and can take care of yourself. I just wanted to." When she clicked her remote he beat her to the door and opened it for her. She just shook her head at his quaint chivalry, but didn't say anything.

For a date that wasn't supposed to be one , that awkward moment still came when it wasn't quite clear just how to finish the evening, just as he'd hoped. 'Hoped', because it proved she was feeling something too. He nipped it in the bud by simply being decisive and whispering "Good night" as he gave her another hug. She returned it with, "You too. Welcome back."

As they started to break the embrace and his eyes caught hers again the perfect opening for a kiss happened. All the signs were there, but he didn't think she was truly ready and stuck to his plan. _Be cool_ he told himself, and hard as it was, he resisted the urge and smoothly finished pulling away from her. He wasn't going to risk ruining things by acting like some stupid horny teenager by trying to cram his tongue down her throat – he didn't want to spook her, to make her regret anything done in the heat of the moment.

He held on to the end of her door as she sat, buckled herself in, and put the key in the ignition.

Now to see if she would take the bait…

**Author's Note**

**Sorry for the delay. I'm trying to get a lot set up in this middle stretch of the story and this grew, causing the followup to move to the next chapter. Additionally, I'm about to start teaching summer semester (I'm a university instructor in a technical field), so that coupled with the coming chapters getting a bit trickier may cause the update pace to slow a little. **

**FWIW, right now I'm thinking the story has another seven chapters, maybe a couple more. I've got all the remaining sections and scenes, and much of the dialogue mapped out, but they continue to shift under my feet as the characters take on a life of their own. Or as I've sometimes seen so far, inspiration for some of the choicest bits just really seems to come from out of the blue, percolating up from my subconscious as I keep chewing it all over. So instead of focusing on getting the current chapter out I keep finding myself pulled into bits and pieces much further out. It's very non-linear, chaotic at times.**

**Please keep the reviews coming. As always I try to give you something that is not quite what you expect yet that you will still really enjoy. Let me know how I'm doing.**


	13. Reprise

_Saturday morning, 10:20AM_

In the parking lot of Tommy's rifle range Booth opened the liftgate of the SUV. He set the spotting scope at his feet then unslung the scoped Remington 700 bolt-action rifle and the Benelli pump shotgun from his shoulder and carefully set down the unloaded weapons, leaning them against the bumper. He drew back the blanket in the back of the SUV to expose what he'd come to privately refer to jokingly as 'the arsenal', the big black steel arms locker that had been welded to the vehicle frame for securely storing his tactical gear.

He dialed in the combination and opened the lid, out of habit checking to make sure nothing was missing. All of the various compartments were properly filled except for the big slot for the tactical shotgun he was returning. He chuckled at the memory of Bones firing the 12 gauge monster a little while ago, its recoil taking her off guard the first time even though he'd warned her about it after he'd demonstrated it for her. He only made a token effort to discourage her from shooting it, just making sure she knew she would probably be in for a sore shoulder if she fired several shells. Hell, _he_ could feel it even though he had a lot more meat on his bones. But she was determined as always, and the recoil and thunder of firing it were half the fun of a shotgun. The other half of course was obliterating the target with double ought buckshot. She was suitably impressed. He even let her fire one of the nasty flechette rounds illegal for civilians, which instead of round shot contained miniature sharpened arrows that wouldn't penetrate structures as well but were devastating on bad guys. She didn't say anything, but when she retrieved some of the flechettes as souvenirs he knew she was getting them for the lab out of professional interest, surely thinking about the kinds of marks they might leave on bone.

He placed the shotgun in its slot in the foam, then capped the scope on the rifle and put it into a separate soft sided zippered case since it did not have a space in the locker.

He sat on the back of the SUV in the shade of the liftgate while he waited for Bones to come back from the restroom. Even though it was the middle of spring the midmorning sun was already getting hot. Last night it was even easier to coax her to come back out to shoot long guns at Tommy's outdoor range than he'd hoped. She had started to beg off, citing dirty laundry, getting in an overdue workout at her dojo, and working on her manuscript, but she was a pushover, her objections apparently merely _pro forma_. When he pointed out that he couldn't spend all day either because Rebecca was dropping off Parker at 4:00 she happily agreed to come after all. She insisted on driving her car this time out of fairness, and he would have happily let her, having somewhat surprisingly learned that he enjoyed her being in control sometimes, but he told her they were going to be using some of his new 'toys' from the SUV and she relented, clearly intrigued. As a compromise she drove her car to his place, and he surprised her by letting her drive the SUV into Virginia to the range.

Again they'd had a great time with their unconventional entertainment. She'd done a little hunting before but really ate up everything he had to explain and show her with the Remington hunting rifle. It was his personal weapon, not the Bureau's. The way he had it configured it was fairly similar to his old M24 Army sniper rifle, which in fact was based off the Remington design. Really showing her how to properly use the scope and make adjustments for range, windage and elevation was a treat given how she was such good pupil, and her long range shooting showed a real improvement just this morning. If she had noticed that he was only using bullseye targets instead of silhouettes like last night, she was too polite to comment on it. He just didn't want to think too much about his day job.

Today she had made a few anthropological observations about some of the other groups of shooters, comparing them to tribesmen, and he actually laughed as he realized she was _joking_ and was not being patronizing at all. She continued to surprise him.

Just then the object of his recollection, and affection if truth be told, came into view carrying a couple of sodas. She smiled when she saw that he was looking at her and grinned the whole time as she approached. She handed him the unopened bottle as he stood up.

"Thanks, that's a great idea." She nodded in acknowledgement. He removed the cap and took the first sip. As soon as he did her expression changed to one of disgruntlement.

"What? What I'd do now?" he was puzzled as he lowered the drink.

She smiled and patted his arm holding the bottle, "No, not you. Tommy."

_Crap._ "Ok, what did _he_ do?" _I'll kill him…_

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "It's not what he did, but what he didn't do." Booth was utterly baffled now. "I felt like I should have gone into that restroom armed. It was filthy, and I swear something moved but it was too dark to see. You can tell he doesn't get a lot of women customers here."

He laughed out loud at her, "You're not fazed by a slit trench in the jungle in Guatemala, but this place threw you for a loop?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but he didn't notice. "I know the accommodations for the outside range are kinda Spartan, grungy even, but still…" He chuckled some more, "I suppose it's different when you have to sit down for everything."

She _moved_.

"OWWW!" He was fast, but he only caught her hand after the damage was done. Damn but if she hadn't managed to poke him at the exact same spot on his ribs that was still sore from last night. "What did you do that for?" Maybe encouraging her newfound playfulness wasn't such a good idea after all. He kept holding her hand at bay as she didn't answer, instead only giving him with a smug look belied by the twinkle in her eye.

He gave her hand a squeeze, "Ok, ok, so you can have the last laugh." Then she did laugh out loud, and squeezed his hand in return before letting go.

"Too rough for you?" she teased.

He smiled back at her as rubbed his side, "I just thought I'd learned not to underestimate you a long time ago."

She grinned more broadly, "Well, you can consider that remedial instruction."

"Yes, ma'am."

She rolled her eyes at that. "But seriously, Tommy needs to see the restrooms are maintained better."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?" He'd introduced her to him this morning, and as soon as her back was turned Tommy gave him two big thumbs up, to which he responded by scratching his temple with his middle finger, also where she couldn't see. It was a guy thing. If Tommy thought she was just a pretty face he could readily dismiss he'd be sadly mistaken. Booth would gladly pay to see her bulldogging the owner.

"I will." She changed the subject, eager again. "What are we going to shoot next? What's in there?" She pointed to a hard case sitting in its own slot in the larger locker.

He hadn't planned on going there. "Uh, we're not going to shoot that one today." She briefly showed disappointment before quickly hiding it.

He needed to explain. His voice dropped, "That's my real sniper rifle. I don't fire it unless I can put it on a bench rest and re-zero it right afterwards. It has to be ready to go 24/7."

"Can I see it?" she asked softly.

"Sure." He lifted the hard case out of the locker and pulled it across, unlatching it only when he was sure it would not fall.

"I've never seen that type before."

"I thought you don't watch hardly any movies or TV?"

She gave a sigh of exasperation, "Just because I don't spend hours mindlessly being bombarded with commercials and superficial entertainment doesn't mean I live in a cave."

He let that one go with just a raised eyebrow and instead picked up the rifle and handed it to her, making sure she didn't drop it. As he expected she was first startled by the weight before she hefted it carefully.

"This is heavy. Twenty pounds?" she guessed.

"It's a little over eighteen, about twice what you'd normally expect a rifle that size to weigh. But I don't plan on having to hump it far." He smiled at her for real for the first time since she had asked about it. She held it for a few seconds, deep in thought, before handing it back.

He explained some more as he sat on the bumper again and laid it across his lap. "This is a Heckler and Koch PSG1, the most accurate semi-automatic sniper rifle in the world. You don't see many of them because at $10,000 a pop the Podunk PD can't afford them. Also there are a few other rifles out there that are very nearly as good which cost a lot less. But Uncle Sam's got deep pockets."

She remarked, "I thought the most accurate rifles were single-shot, bolt actions like your Remington." It was really a question.

"That's true but this one is damned close. That's one reason it weighs so much, to better absorb the recoil. But there's more of a story behind it." He patted the stock of the rifle and looked at her again. "What do you know about the Munich Massacre?"

"Just that Palestinian terrorists killed Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics." She sobered too as the ugliness of the real world intruded on their outing.

He continued, "The West German police had some terrible luck. They had arranged an ambush for when the terrorists and the hostages were going to transfer between the two choppers that brought them to the airport and a disabled airliner waiting for them with a phony aircrew. The Germans had five snipers, one assigned to each of the five terrorists, set to take them out on the tarmac."

"What went wrong?" She knew the story ended badly, but not how.

He grimaced, the story striking uncomfortably close to home, "Their intel was wrong. There were actually eight terrorists, and with their slow bolt-action rifles the snipers couldn't put them down before they had a chance to kill all of the athletes. Too many targets are one of a rescue sniper's nightmares."

Without his saying, she knew that the others had to be losing a hostage, or worse, killing one. So _that_ was why the reminder of the pregnant Kurdish woman last night had bothered him so much.

He finished with a sigh, "Anyway, that's why they had H&K develop this, for multiple bad guys."

She placed a hand on his right hand where it held the rifle. "Then I'm glad you have it." She didn't need to say that she hoped he never needed the capability – they knew each other too well by now.

"I'm sorry for being such a bummer", he said with a rueful grin.

"No, no, I'm glad you shared that with me. I want to understand."

He thought that for someone who was supposedly not a people person she certainly had developed an ability to tell him just what he needed. He was again thankful for her. He stood up and turned around to put the rifle back in its case, then turned back to her. He made a deliberate effort to lighten up.

"You know you really did well today, I'm proud of you. You're a quick study, but I guess that should have come as no surprise."

She smiled in appreciation at the compliment, but he continued before she could speak.

"Matter of fact I think I'm going to have to send off for your Junior Sniper badge", he said with mock seriousness. But apparently he wasn't the only one ready to raise the mood because what she did next nearly shocked him.

She responded with a laugh, "But I wanted one of _these_!" As she said it she reached out, grabbed his belt buckle and gave it a tug.

She was perfectly innocent in the gesture, not being suggestive in the slightest, so paradoxically he found the unexpected familiarity incredibly sexy. He knew then and there that if she ever turned it on, on purpose, that he was a goner. _He_ was nervous for a moment, and he wondered if she was aware of the effect she had on him.

"Uh… I'm afraid it's a bit of an antique, an heirloom. It belonged to my grandfather too. He was a sniper himself." Without waiting for a reply he swiftly changed the subject by reaching into the locker and retrieving the H&K MP5/10 submachine gun with the collapsible stock, which he extended. He'd seen her eyeing it, but figured she'd assumed she wouldn't get to shoot it. He had one last surprise for her. He handed her the weapon, and her eyes grew wide.

"Ready to rock and roll?" He was pleased he'd caught her off guard.

She held the MP5 gingerly by it's pistol grip. "I don't know what that means but I think I like the sound of it", she said with a widening grin.

"That's shooting on full auto", he explained. "Everybody ought to get to try it at least once. It's a helluva rush."

"Isn't this against some kind of rule?" she asked.

"What Cullen doesn't know won't hurt him. Anyway, what's bending a little rule between friends?" he said with a wink.

**A/N As always, please let me know what you think**


	14. Repast

**A/N Sorry for the delay, I had to get all my ducks in a row to teach my first class for the summer. I am also cross-posting this story at my LiveJournal site I finally set up. Just search LJ for user newscaper. The entry for the first chapter has a graphic I created which includes photos of the real HRT patch and the H&K PSG1 sniper rifle.**

**This is the longest chapter so far at 2900 words.**

_Saturday 12:45PM_

When they finished shooting and were all packed up, Bones kept her promise to confront Tommy about the poorly maintained restrooms. They went over into the main building, and she waited patiently until the owner had waited on all his customers. She read him the riot act about not taking business from women for granted, and she was having none of Tommy's best 'aw, shucks' routine as he tried to brush her off. It was rough enough that the he looked to Booth for some help, which he refused to provide as he was enjoying the show too much. Not too mention the fact that he knew which side his bread was buttered on. Bones' trump card was threatening not to come back herself which, whether or not she was aware of it, worked because it would put Tommy squarely on the shit list of Booth, who was delighted with the implication she wanted to come out with him again. Tommy's shoulders sagged in defeat, and he contritely and sincerely promised to renovate the restrooms – after all, he knew which side his friend's bread was buttered on too.

Booth drove on the way back to his place. Once there Bones helped him bring in the gear. He would have loved to have seen the expression on his elderly neighbors' faces – and hers for that matter -- if they had seen her coming in with the big shotgun slung across her back as she carried the MP5 sub-machinegun, but he had no such luck. To his delight she seemed in no hurry to leave despite her protestations the night before about all the things she should be doing instead. Since Parker wasn't due until 4PM he hoped he might get to spend much of the afternoon with her as well.

He was eager to see how it went because this thing between them seemed to be changing, growing, deepening by the hour, ever since he'd returned. He was now certain it wasn't all just on his part. Yet he was still convinced that if things got physical too quickly it would be too easy for her to dismiss him as a merely a fling, if not an outright mistake, even if she didn't shoot him down up front. He cared for her too much now and couldn't handle either outcome. He was playing for keeps.

As they came inside he led her to the kitchen. "Just set them on the table." He put down the case containing the Remington rifle and a bag containing the now empty magazines for the MP5 and some boxes of the 10mm cartridges it used – he needed to reload the mags. She set down the MP5 then grimaced as she took the shotgun off her right shoulder. After she laid it down she worked her right arm.

He chuckled softly, "I told you the shotgun's recoil would get you."

When she saw that he had noticed her rubbing her shoulder, she quit and stuck out her chin stubbornly, "It was worth it."

He smiled, "Sure, but at a price. Let me see your shoulder." He walked around the table and came up on her right side. He only intended to carefully poke and prod through the fabric, but she surprised him by pulling the loose collar of her top aside and down a few inches with her right hand to expose her shoulder, having taken him literally. With her other hand she pulled her hair out of the way, which she'd already removed from the ponytail she wore earlier for shooting. Again he struggled to play it cool as he touched her warm skin, lightly probing then massaging the muscles. He'd usually gone for women who were more tanned, but her fair skin was never pasty and seemed fresher, cleaner than any tanning bed queen's. Not to mention more enticingly… naked.

He'd better at least pretend not to be drooling over her. "It's just a little red, at least the skin isn't actually bruised. Anything particularly tender?"

He barely heard her answer as he took in the sight of the pale pink of the bra strap against her creamy skin, the barest beginning of the swell of her breast, and the graceful line of her neck. A softly defined, delicate collarbone like hers got to him every time.

"No, it's just a bit sore generally," she answered.

After a moment she put her hair and collar back into place, and he took the hint, immediately withdrawing his hands.

She turned her head and smiled at him. "That felt wonderful, thanks."

"You're more than welcome," he grinned in reply. _No shit. _

Again he didn't _think_ she was being deliberately provocative. Regardless, she was making him feel like he was a hormone besotted teenager half his age. Even though she had showed no more skin than many of her casual outfits ordinarily revealed anyway, something about the act of uncovering that which had been hidden gave him a jolt of pleasure, completely apart from the touch itself. God, he was getting pathetic, he thought. _Don't fuck it up!_

He tried to stick to the business at hand,"A couple Tylenol before you go to bed should help with any stiffness. I don't think you need to fool with an icepack."

She turned to face him fully then she surprised him again, his good old no-nonsense Bones. "Since I actually did more shooting than you it's only fair that I help clean your guns."

"No, you don't need to. You're my guest. Anyway, I already cleaned the handguns last night." Actually he'd been so keyed up that he'd gone ahead and cleaned them just to have something to do while he couldn't sleep.

She was persistent, "Well since there are just these three," she pointed to the table, "it shouldn't be that big a deal for me to help then, should it?"

He grinned as he gave in, finding it harder and harder to refuse her anything. "Ok, have a seat."

Booth retrieved his cleaning kit from the closet together with a couple of old towels which he used to cover the kitchen table in front of her. He then laid out the cleaning rods, patches and big swabs for the shotgun as well as the cleaning solvent and gun oil. After he got her started on the rifle he opened the window over the sink for some fresh air to ventilate the solvent fumes.

He asked, "How about a pizza for lunch? There's a good New York style delivery place just up the road."

"Sounds great," she replied. "I am getting a little hungry." She'd been enjoying herself so much she didn't realize it until he mentioned food.

After he phoned in the order he quickly took care of the shotgun, and when she was done he then showed her how to disassemble the MP5 submachine gun. It was more complex than the other two weapons, and as he'd expected, she was very interested in it. He helped her clean the parts then explained how the delayed blowback loaded the next round, and how the shape of the sear controlled single shot or fully automatic firing. As he demonstrated the interoperation of the various components she thanked him.

"I didn't know I was coming for a lecture." He had to look at her grin to be sure she was just teasing. "Seriously, I just knew how to shoot and perform basic maintenance on the guns I've used before, but I never understood much about the actual mechanisms. I just saw them as protection or empowerment but never paid much attention to them in their own right. Thank you," she smiled.

"You just needed a good teacher," he joked.

"Apparently you're right," she agreed warmly.

He replied, "It shouldn't be that a big deal anyway. They're just a different type of machine than what you're used to."

She looked puzzled at that.

He clarified, "You analyze body movements like it's a machine… I forget … what do you call it?"

"Kinesthesiology."

"Well I've seen the things you can do with that. You're amazing. That is much harder than understanding this. You just have slides, rollers and springs instead of joints and muscles." He got a wonderful smile for his compliment.

"Well I definitely have a greater appreciation for the science and engineering of shooting now," she said.

"Well firearm and cartridge design are definitely scientific," he affirmed, "but the _shooting_ part is as much or more an art, and not just a question of trained reflexes either."

"But you explained what's involved in the internal workings and ballistics. That's _science_," she insisted.

He countered, "Sure, but in practice you never have all the hard numbers to plug into some formula with a calculator, and even if you did, there'd be no time. That's where the intuition comes in, the _art _of shooting."

She smiled in grudging acceptance of his point, "Ok, I'll grant you that much."

He grinned back at her, "Actually it gets worse. There's some of that fuzzy 'psychology' you dislike so much."

She pondered that, "I suppose the shooter has to be mentally prepared to pull the trigger…"

"Yes and no." He answered the eyebrow she raised at his apparently nonsensical reply. "That's true, but I'm talking about the _shootee_." He stopped smiling. "It's easier to aim and lead if you can anticipate which way the targets are likely to run when the shooting starts."

She accepted that with a silent nod, then after a moment returned to fiddling with the partially assembled submachine gun. Booth just sat back and enjoyed watching her.

He thought she looked incredibly cute with her hair in a ponytail again and a couple dark smudges of oily powder residue she'd unknowingly put on her face as she intently broke down and reassembled the MP5 again like an addictive puzzle. He couldn't decide how he preferred her hair. _Screw it_, he thought, she was gorgeous to him either way. Then he noticed the time.

"The pizza should be here any minute. Let's get cleaned up."

He'd already put everything else away so he went on over to the kitchen sink to wash up. She finished putting the MP5 back together and joined him at the sink where he was drying his hands. He moved to make room for her as she started washing, and he looked at the smudges on her left cheek. He decided to give into an impulse and push the envelope a little. He wet the end of another clean hand towel and put a dab of soap on it.

"Here, let me get that off your face."

She turned while drying her hands, "What?"

He lightly tapped her cheek, "You wiped a little gunk on yourself."

She smiled, "I can get it myself."

"Don't be silly, there's not a mirror in here." He didn't give her a chance to argue anymore or head to the bathroom where there was one. He went ahead and stepped closer and started softly wiping at her cheek with the cloth. His presumption paid off as she made him happy by giving in after rolling her eyes with a smirk. She looked over his shoulder, chin up, and closed her eyes. The smirk left and her expression became peaceful as he softly rubbed.

The greasy residue tended to shift around on her skin, resisting his efforts to wipe it off, but to be honest he wasn't trying too hard as he was enjoying the rare opportunity to once again take care of her. Then he noticed her incredible blue-green eyes were open again, examining his face from just inches away, and he tried to stay focused on her cheek. They were too close. _Easy boy… don't_… but he was drawn in anyway. Their eyes met for an intense moment, and his apparently betrayed too much. She shied away from the unexpected intimacy and looked away, breaking the connection. She grabbed the cloth from his hands and backed up a step.

_Fuck! _He'd spooked her in spite of himself.

"I can wash my own face. I'm not a child." She said it with a small grin, her tone lightly mocking, but he could tell she was a bit flustered as she finished washing her own face with the cloth. But she surprised him while he was still mentally kicking himself. She seemed to collect herself as she laid down the cloth, and turned back to him.

"How do I look now?" she asked, playfully presenting herself as if for his inspection.

He was so thrilled that her retreat was temporary, that he almost screwed up again. He was too honest with the answer that just popped out.

"Beautiful."

She smiled shyly at the compliment, but was clearly taken off guard by his choice of words. _Dammit!_ He quickly changed the subject, making a show of peering out the window.

"Where's that pizza guy? He should have been here by now." He turned back to her, "What would you like to drink? Beer, wine, soda?"

"Wine, thank you." When he produced the bottle he managed to surprise her just as he had hoped. "That's my favorite red. I didn't think you were much into wine." He got another nice smile out of her.

"Well, you never know who might show up." He'd picked up the Chilean cabernet on the way home last night just in case, a small gamble which fortunately paid off. He gave her one of his 'charm' smiles as he poured two glasses, even though he personally considered wine a bit highbrow for pizza. Just then the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of their lunch.

------------

They were each sipping another glass of wine over the remains of the pizza. She had just concluded an interesting story of how the squints had determined the cause of death by foul play of a socialite in an unsolved case dating to Prohibition when Booth decided the time was right for a little fishing expedition. He needed some intel on just what competition, if any, he might be up against. Interrogation without alerting the suspect was always the trickiest.

He observed, as casually as possible, "I'm kinda surprised David doesn't mind you blowing most of your weekend with me." Better to get his worst case concern out of the way off the bat. If David was still around after all this time it might be serious, and things would be messy if not futile.

"Oh him? That ended quite a while back. It never really went anywhere." She raised her glass to him and acknowledged with a smile, "Perhaps you were right about online matchmaking."

_Yes!_ Booth could genuinely smile at that. He felt like pumping his fist, but he successfully resisted the urge to kick Dick431 while he was down. Be gracious in victory and all that. But he still did _not_ want to know if the investment banker had achieved "on occasion" status.

"I can't help it. I'm just an old-fashioned guy who prefers face time and _really_ getting to know someone first."

It also constituted good circumstantial evidence she wasn't seeing anyone else as it would have been a reasonable opportunity for her to say that, no, she was seeing 'Fred' now. It looked like the coast was clear.

But _she_ wasn't through…

"How about you?" she asked, changing gears.

"What?" It was his turn to be caught off guard.

"Don't you have some blonde hidden away?" she teased.

He laughed at that. "No, nobody. It's been a long time. Anyway, even if I had one, I'd doubt she'd have stuck around after being neglected these last few months."

But she still wasn't finished surprising him.

"Well there's your problem," she chuckled at him. He raised both eyebrows at her.

"You just need to find a woman smart enough to realize you're worth waiting for," she clarified. She seemed to be watching him closely.

"I think…" _I've found her,_ was what he thought, but he had the presence of mind to reply out loud, "… I'd better look into that." He gave her a huge grin, and to his delight she seemed satisfied with his answer. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but he felt like a million bucks. But his joy was short-lived…

The doorbell chimed, startling them both, and he rose to answer the door.

As was his habit when he wasn't expecting anyone, he was careful to check the peephole first – after all he'd helped put quite a few perps behind bars.

He got a good look. _Dammit!_ Aloud he muttered "Goddammit." Bones must have heard him.

"What's wrong?" She looked at him with concern on her face.

He sighed. "It's Rebecca." He looked at the clock on the microwave. _Two fucking hours early…_

**A/N Sorry to be so mean… NOT!**

**Some Brennan POV is coming up.**

**Please review – I'd particularly love to hear from anyone who is still reading from whom I haven't heard in a while – let me know you're still out there. Thanks.**


	15. Realization Pt 1

**A/N**

**Sorry for the delay with the new chapter. It was growing over 3000 words and I was fighting with the second part, so to get something up I have split it into two.**

**Ch16 should be up tonight.**

**Right now I think the story will end up at approx. 22-23 chapters.**

_Saturday, 9PM_

Booth wasn't happy, at least not nearly as happy as he should have been.

After Parker was asleep he sat staring blankly at his computer screen wondering how a day which had started out so wonderfully could have ended so screwed up.

Actually he knew the answer to that…

Rebecca had pulled the same crap a few times before, just showing up with Parker way ahead of time without bothering to call ahead, "I was in the neighborhood and figured you wouldn't mind…" Best as he could tell it was entirely intentional – she just used his near desperation to see his son as a lever so she could do as she damned well pleased. And he was utterly helpless to even say anything about it, she had him so totally by the balls. Just say "boo" and she could punish him by withholding access to Parker, and he had zero legal recourse. On the other hand if she was running very late he just had to suck it up and be grateful for whatever scraps of time he could get. Of course if the shoe was ever on the other foot she'd be the first one to have a cow.

The other times she'd done it he'd been so happy to have some extra time with his boy that he didn't let Rebecca's manipulative tactics faze him. But never before had her shenanigans come at such an inopportune time. He'd originally offered to go pick up Parker first thing Saturday morning, and _she_ was the one who'd suggested 4PM, but even so his resentment at her showing up so early was nearly canceled out by the thrill of getting to see his little boy.

He tried to just chalk it up to bad timing, and he figured letting his two favorite people in the whole world spend a little time together before Bones left wasn't a bad thing, although not something he would have planned this soon in their pseudo-relationship. After all, even if Bones wasn't the type to ooh and ahh over kids the little guy was quite the charmer – he took after his old man. But his attempt to make the best of the situation flew out the window with the crap Rebecca pulled once he opened the door and let her in…

----

Rebecca's demeanor was perfectly pleasant until she'd entered the kitchen far enough to see Bones still sitting at the table, at which point she became icily polite.

"Will you excuse us for a moment please?"

"Of course."

Bones immediately got up and took her wine glass with her to the far end of the den. He tried to catch her eye but failed. Rebecca continued, barely lowering her voice at all.

"If you think I'm dropping off Parker so he can play second fiddle to your girlfriend you've got another thing coming!"

"She was going to leave before four o'clock," he explained, trying to defuse her and work in at least a token reminder that she was ridiculously early. But it was futile.

"Well I don't care about that because she is going to leave right _now_. Parker is not setting foot in here until then."

He was left speechless by her nerve in expecting him to help free her up to go do whatever in hell it was she had planned while at the same dictating terms to him.

She wasn't quite finished…

"And you're not seeing him until you have _those_," which she said with as much disgust possible, referring to the three cleaned weapons leaning against the wall, "locked up and out of sight."

He knew it was pointless to state that _of course_ they would have been safely put away by four. He said, "Just give me a few minutes," to her back as she was already stalking back out to her car.

He turned around in the open doorway, and Bones was already standing there with her small bag. It was clear she had heard everything. He felt helpless and humiliated, "I'm sorry…"

She patted his arm, "It's ok. I understand. I don't want to be underfoot. Call me later?"

His shoulders sagged. It was obvious nothing more was going to happen under Rebecca's hostile gaze from where she stood by her car. Not that he wanted it to in front of her. He'd have to wait until some other time for another pleasantly womanly armful of Bones.

He shook his head, "No. I've taken enough of your time this weekend. You go work out, and do your laundry and work on your book. I'll talk to you one way or another on Monday. That's a promise." He tried to give her his best smile. It wasn't one of his best efforts given the circumstances, but it would have to do. She flashed a quick smile of her own in return and squeezed past him in a hurry to leave.

He watched her walk quickly to her car, then he locked away the guns. When he went outside and saw Parker eagerly waving at him from the big kid booster seat in the back of Rebecca's car he nearly forgot about the earlier ugliness in his joy to see his son. In fact he felt a stab of real guilt for forgetting his priorities in his resentment about Rebecca's crap. _Screw her. He's what it's all about._

-----

Booth rubbed his tired eyes, not really seeing the website in front of him, and he kicked himself again for stupidly overcompensating for his earlier guilt. In wanting to make it up to Parker he had let him eat too much ice cream for dessert. Then they'd roughhoused so much afterward he vomited up everything, dinner included, which really made Booth feel like crap. Like kids did at that age, Parker was already over it by the time he put him to bed early for pancakes and Mass in the morning, but Booth knew Rebecca would rip him a new asshole over it. He sighed, figuring that it was better to tell her himself and take his lumps rather than let her find out from Parker.

That issue settled for the moment, his thoughts returned again to his frustration over Temperance's premature exit. How they parted should have been an excellent indicator of the progress between them so he could best figure out how to proceed, but Rebecca had scuttled it with a vengeance, clubbing Bones over the head with _his_ baggage, and probably spooking her with her use of the word 'girlfriend'. All of that coupled with the frustration of his now visceral need to touch her left him feeling wronged, terribly cheated, but simply feeling like he'd had to allow the woman he loved to be kicked to the curb was the biggest insult of all. And the fact she'd been so understanding had only made it all chap his ass even more.

It was strange, but this episode was what had finally made him get over his hesitation to use the L-word even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Now he fully accepted that he _loved_ her and that's all there was too it, no more beating around the bush at least in his own mind. The novelty of the realization was such that earlier he'd even given it a test drive, saying it out loud to make it more real, "I love Bones."

But instead of the goof y thrill he expected, it actually made him feel worse about the way their fantastic day had ended. He'd really wanted to call her, to hear her softly husky voice on the line, but he decided he probably shouldn't inflict his moodiness on her. He would stick to his plan of giving her some space, not crowding her.

But Booth felt the need to do _something_, which was why he was currently staring at the florist's web site. He knew she despised Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and other celebrations as being overly commercialized if not outright fabrications, but he knew there wasn't a woman born who didn't at some level appreciate the beauty of flowers.

After having such a wonderful time with a woman early in a budding relationship he'd always loved to send flowers as a follow-up, the trick being for it to be sweet rather than cheesy. The type of the arrangement had to be carefully calibrated to send the right message, neither suggesting too much nor too little, and in this case it was trickier than at any time in the past. If this was a more conventional relationship… _Fat chance_ … the way he felt would have easily warranted sending roses, possibly even red ones at this stage of the game. Or if he needed to make sure he didn't overplay his hand, pink, white or yellow ones. But he decided roses of any color were too strong a statement given how he needed to tiptoe his way forward with Temperance.

Yet some generic bouquet suitable for your grandmother wouldn't say anything at all. He finally settled on something which he felt would subtly reflect just how special she was to him while not being too heavy-handed. He then struggled with what to have put on the small card and finally decided to keep it simple:

_Thank you for the wonderful time._

_It's great to be back._

_-- Booth_

He decided that the flowers themselves would serve as the apology for running her off – anything more explicit would just remind her of unpleasantness that he wished forgotten.

He filled out the delivery address and his billing information. Women ordinarily loved to be seen receiving flowers by their female co-workers, but he knew in this case that sending them to the lab would be a truly catastrophic mistake. So he entered her apartment address, crossing his fingers that the delivery person would find someone to leave them with. After a few minutes of reviewing his choices he finally clicked Submit and was committed. The ringing of the telephone surprised him…

**A/N**

**Please review. As always I want to entertain while not being somewhat unpredictable.**


	16. Realization Pt2

**A/N**

**Here is the continuation of the previous chapter which I explained that I had to split into two parts. In some ways this has been the hardest one to write so far. Just this part grew into 3,000 words itself.**

**Realization, Part 2**

_Saturday Evening_

Brennan curled up on her couch, feet tucked under, feeling fresh from the much-needed shower after her long overdue workout at her _dojo,_ which was of the _Uehi-Ryu_ school of _karate_. Her _kata_, her forms, had been sloppy at first, distracted as she was by the events of the last twenty four hours, but after forcibly regaining focus she then finally managed to settle down and start to lose herself in the flow of the precise movements, her body almost on automatic pilot in the familiar rhythms of the exercises. Some people claimed to do their best thinking in the shower, others while pacing, but for her some of her best results in wrestling with particularly thorny problems sometimes came in the context of _karate_.

Others might see it as a kinesthetic form of meditation, freeing her intuitive capacity, but that was not a concept she bought into, at least not in those terms. Rather she saw it as engaging the motor parts of her brain in such a way as to lower the static, the noise level, such that her subconscious mind might process more efficiently, or perhaps temporarily modifying the right-brain, left-brain balance. Regardless, she never accepted whatever insight which might arise at face value, and she _always_ backed up a few steps and tried to determine if deliberate, explicit reasoning verified the proposed solution or conclusion. That was what she was determined to wade through now.

At first she wasn't aware of any problem to be solved when she went to work out, but was simply enjoying the warm glow of her day with Booth in spite of it being cut short. However, when her thoughts inevitably returned to the way it ended she suddenly realized she _did_ have one…

Her conundrum could be summarized as such: she had had an absolutely fantastic time with Booth since Friday night, Rebecca's early arrival excepted, yet at the same time she was troubled afterward by certain events. She kept reviewing all that had happened…

Upon reflection her eagerness to see him, and even nervousness while waiting for him Friday evening were somewhat over the top, even for a close friend whom she had not seen for a while. And the same thing went for the ease with which Hodgins' crap had upset her.

At dinner and the range Friday evening, then at the range again on Saturday, as well as back at his place, she had felt an uncharacteristic freedom. She was so attuned to him that several times she had responded without thinking, sometimes even surprising herself. Grabbing his belt buckle like that? Although she was hesitant around men after having been burned in so many ways, she did not really consider herself shy. Once she was in a relationship she thought she was actually fairly straightforward although probably never quite as bold as Angela. But she _wasn't_ in a relationship with Booth, and some of the things she'd said and done confused her. They were simply partners, colleagues who had become very close friends. But some of the things_ he'd _said and done confused her as well.

He'd been delightful the entire time, and for once she had not minded his attentiveness in the slightest. First he'd surprised and moved her by saying they were equals at dinner, and then later in sharing his family history with her at the range in the context of the heirloom guns. When it came to the shooting he had only showed off a little, and she had to admit he was rightfully proud of his prowess. Most importantly, he did not engage in any effort to "win" or to rub her nose in the fact of his superiority, something which she would have expected from him for sure, at least back when she had first come to know him. How wrong she had been about him. Neither was he patronizing about her shooting skills which were meager by comparison. Rather he had totally surprised her with his interest in teaching her and his ability to explain and to simplify without talking down, a skill with which she knew _she_ still often had difficulty.

As to attitude in general, well he wouldn't be Booth without some displays of cockiness, but this time they always seemed to be ironic, even self-deprecatingly humorous at times. She wasn't sure if the change was in him or in her, or somehow in both of them.

With him, away from work and everyone else, she had felt more at ease, at ease with herself even, than she had in a long time. She simply _was_, without thinking everything through at every instant. Perhaps it was what Angela called 'living in the moment'. It was liberating, even exhilarating, but it just wasn't _her_ so in hindsight it was disturbing too.

Other things both excited and troubled her the most. Twice she was certain he had nearly kissed her, and she had to confront the fact that Booth must have developed feelings for her. Apparently Zach was right about the 'non-platonic' part, damn him. And two specific datapoints supported her new certainty that he truly cared for her and that it was much more than a sexual attraction. First, she realized that he must have held back for her sake, that he wanted to follow her lead and not simply give into his urges which implied a great respect for both her and their working partnership.

Second, the look in his eyes when he said she was 'beautiful' had nearly floored her. It had taken her a long time since she was an overlooked and awkward teenager to realize, believe, and accept that many men in fact found her attractive. However, whenever she had been complimented in that fashion it had always been in one of two contexts: either some guy hitting on her, or a date who was more or less expected to say something flattering because she was dressed up and made up for an occasion. But this was different. She knew that after the hot and dusty shooting range Saturday morning her hair was a mess, and she had only put on the barest of makeup that morning anyway. So his sincerity, the unabashed admiration in his eyes had truly taken her off guard. He was utterly without guile or design, and he seemed surprised himself that he'd said it, perhaps correctly thinking he had revealed too much. She knew she was often clueless about other people's feelings or intentions, but this was truly staring her in the face.

Plus his having feelings for her was also the only reasonable explanation for why he was so clearly torn by Rebecca's demand that she leave before letting Parker come in. It was obvious it was much more than just an affront to his sense of hospitality.

Finally, if there was any doubt that their relationship was entering uncharted territory, the original impetus for her intently reexamining their time together was the fact that when Rebecca had referred to her as his 'girlfriend' he had made no effort whatsoever, zero, to deny it. She had become somewhat inured to people occasionally misinterpreting their relationship in the last few months, but his lack of a denial had hit her squarely between the eyes. For some reason it only sank in well after she had left him, and was in fact what had sparked her thoughts while working out.

His side of their partnership apparently leaving the safe and well defined status quo to which she'd become accustomed, and upon which she'd grown to depend, was troubling enough, but she realized she needed to examine her own feelings too, to open her eyes to whatever role she might have played in encouraging him. Although other people could be complete ciphers to her at times, she was sometimes capable of great introspection when she turned her analytical skills on herself.

So _did_ she feel anything toward him beyond a deep friendship? Beyond a simple physical attraction?

It had most definitely become harder to tune out his attractiveness at a visceral level. Back when they had first met she'd noted his good looks, although they were perhaps more roughly All-American than what she normally preferred. Not that she had ever acted on physical appearances alone, or even placed that high a priority on them in and of themselves, but she had come to admit they certainly didn't hurt. But in the beginning they were off to such a rocky start, often striking sparks of the wrong sort, that she no longer really noticed how handsome he was except in a clinical fashion, or when reminded by some other woman's appreciation. Later on, as they had grown to respect, like, and depend on each other more, her attraction to him started to rear it's head again, but it was something which at that point she knew was inappropriate for their professional relationship. So she had deliberately tuned it out, and had done so long enough that it had become automatic.

But it clearly wasn't working any more. She wanted him on multiple levels.

Angela had been correct in her observations that she had not been on a date in a long time, and had given up on online dating as well. Lately she had found all of the men she had met either in person or via the Internet wanting in one quality or another -- qualities which she now realized were all possessed by Booth, and which she deeply admired in him. She had to face it, why look for a man more like Booth when she had the real man right in front of her, whom she now understood to be waiting for her?

She _did_ want him for herself. Why else would his answer that he wasn't seeing anyone have suddenly been so important to her? Why else her comment about him needing someone smart enough to wait for him? How could she have seen that truth while being so unaware of the whole truth in that she herself felt that way? Had he seen it?

Why else the need to have her arms around him, and the need to be wrapped in his? Which need had been frustrated by the manner in which she'd been forced to leave his apartment. And which need she now knew he shared.

As to the near-miss on the kisses, she now knew it wasn't just him. She had been perilously close to starting something herself in the heat of the moment, well beyond merely being receptive. In spite of being nervous each time, she now realized she had also experienced pangs of disappointment which she he had repressed almost before she was aware of them, such were her defenses. Again she appreciated his restraint in not taking their relationship unequivocally in a new direction. He was correct to be concerned that she might be responsive at first then push him away – she didn't fully trust her emotions herself.

Not only did she want him, she _needed_ him. Once she had come into her own after college she had always enjoyed men, at least the right sort, who unfortunately were few and far between. Still, over the years she had dated quite a few that she had liked, and had even thought she might be in love with one or two, but none of them had created in her this powerful sense of need. A need which might, just might _not_ represent the weakness she had always assumed it would be. She needed someone who knew all of her secrets and would trust her with his. She needed someone who understood her even when she didn't fully understand herself, who would meet her more than half way when she fumbled. She needed someone who cared for her and who would also take care of her in spite of the barriers she so often put up. She needed someone who had never let her down and never would. She even needed someone with whom it could be safe to live in the moment and not have to analyze everything every instant.

Booth had turned into all of those things to her and more.

In spite of all the obvious complications and risks she wanted to try this, this new thing with him. She deserved it, didn't she? Even if it had come from a totally unexpected quarter. Why couldn't she be truly _happy_ instead of merely content? There were plenty of obvious perils in embarking on a relationship with him, a sort of co-worker even if they didn't have the same employer, but since he was willing to move so slowly perhaps she could risk it. She would inch her way forward as well – they had not yet reached the point of no return, doing anything that would result in a loss of face for him if she had to cool it after all. Perhaps she was deluding herself, but she still thought she had some maneuvering room in which she could explore a bit further without endangering their partnership. Somehow she knew the stakes were higher than ever, that even if she was seriously willing to consider Angela's 'friends with benefits' concept – which was perhaps not unthinkable if they had not worked together -- that ultimately he was not willing to settle for that.

It was clear that if she were to move forward she could not simply be at the mercy of unexamined emotions in the mean time, but that she would have to accept them so she could channel them rather than being ruled by them and so navigate her way safely.

She had hoped he would accept her offer to call her later in spite of his demurral, but waiting by the phone had never been her style anyway. The rules of the conventional games in relationships confused and annoyed her anyway. _She_ would take the first step, the first small test, now. She put her feet on the floor, picked up her phone, and dialed Booth's number…

It rang until his answering machine was surely about to pick up, and she breathed a sigh of disappointment. She would not leave a message -- for some reason she was suddenly stymied by the thought of having to figure out what to say to the stupid machine when she was so looking forward to talking to _him_. Sadly she hung up her phone, frustrated.

But he came through for her once again – not two seconds later _her_ phone rang and it was Booth according to the caller ID. _Just a tiny step_, she reminded herself…

- - -

Booth felt a thrill when she quickly picked up even as he rubbed at his sore foot.

"Hey," she greeted him softly.

"Hey, yourself." He felt himself grinning to the room foolishly. Simply hearing her voice felt every bit as good as he'd thought it would…

The line was silent for a couple of moments, and he chuckled, "Remember _you_ called _me_."

He laughed again, this time with her as she realized her goof. He explained why he didn't answer originally, "I left the phone in the other room and stubbed my damn toe as I ran to get it."

"I'm sorry," she said still laughing.

"Well that's what I get for not picking up all of the toys yet."

"I hope you're having fun with Parker. You deserve it."

It was nice that her first words were about him and Parker, and not about Rebecca being a bitch. He found he could laugh a little at his earlier screwup with Parker and the ice cream after all.

"I do don't I? Thanks." He could imagine her smile at the other end of the line. "We've had a great time, but you can tear up that 'Father of the Year' nomination," he joked.

"Oh… want to tell me about it?"

"Nah, some other time. It's ok now." _Time for something more serious..._ "I'm really sorry you had to leave in a hurry the way you did." He took a breath and licked his lips, "I wasn't ready for you to go yet."

She replied softly, "Me neither."

He grinned hugely -- just like _that_, her admission made him feel better about everything that had happened. "I'm glad. It's just she…"

She interrupted him gently, "It's ok, you don't have to apologize for her." Then she continued more brightly, "Anyway, that's not why I called."

God, he loved her. "Well?" he prompted.

"I just wanted to remind you I'm holding you to your promise to come see me Monday."

Actually he'd only promised to _talk_ to her on Monday, but he didn't care – he was too thrilled that she was eager to see him also.

"I'll be there. I expect it will be after lunch." There was no way in hell he'd disappoint her. He'd make up some bullshit excuse to get out of the Hoover Building and go over to the Jeffersonian if he had to.

"Great! I'll see you then," she replied. She continued archly, "And just so you know… tomorrow I _will_ be working on my book." She chuckled. "Good night, Seeley."

"Ok," he laughed, she could be so delightful at times. He returned the unexpected familiarity, "Good night, Temperance."

She broke the connection. After hanging up his phone Booth tried it again, out loud with a silly grin.

"I love Temperance Brennan!"

He laughed at the wonder of it. _Much better_.

**A/N**

**I cheated a little in taking and running with some of the character bits we learned in The Woman in Limbo although in this story her mother has not been identified. I suppose I could go back and tweak the story to make it dovetail with the finale ep, but I didn't want to be distracted by the need to make up some way to deal with her father's call at the end of the ep.**

**I'm not sure if this ended up a little too sappy or silly, but that's where it took me.**

**And just for the record… we're not _quite_ totally home free yet :)**

**As always, please review and tell me what hopefully worked for you. And if something didn't, well perhaps I might play George Lucas and tweak it retroactively :)**


	17. Reprisal

**A/N**

**Sorry for the long delay. I got sidetracked by work, family vacation, and a new interest in Smallville that I had to get out of my system to get back on track with Bones.**

**Here's a small down payment, pulled forward from the next chapter I've had on simmer. You might want to back up a few chapters if it's been a while for you.**

_Monday Morning, 8AM _

On Monday, reality closed in…

On the drive in to the Hoover Building Booth could barely think about work, excited as he was about seeing Temperance later in the day. He'd even forgotten that he wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing Hodgins again. He felt his resolve to hold back slowly weakening, as he considered kissing her if the right opportunity presented itself the next time he had her all to himself for an extended period. He still drew the line at their first kiss _not_ being the conventional good night one – once things escalated he needed time to cement the relationship. If it only came at the very end of an evening he was afraid she'd have too much time on her own afterward to decide that it was a mistake. Instead, he needed to make sure the hook was firmly set before leaving her. God, but she made him feel like he was back in high school sweating over a girl, except now he was hopefully a lot smarter about things. He pulled into the parking spot, eager to meet the challenge.

However, by the time he went to the break room to get his morning cup of coffee he was already irritable. It was bad enough that he'd learned he'd have to piss away most of the morning getting a statement from a patient at Bethesda Naval Hospital northwest of the District in Maryland, something a rookie agent could do just as well. It got worse. He'd been working through the inbox of his email and was made livid by the bone-headedly bureaucratic reply to his query about when he would get the rest of his tactical gear – the flashbangs, smoke and CS grenades as well as the encrypted hands-free tactical radio set. Some dumbass had determined that he would be issued them only if and when actually needed in some emergency. His explanation that his purpose under the new program was to serve as a quick reaction force in the DC area as well as an extra body to round out the full time HRT guys fell on deaf ears. The damned gear was sitting in the armory four floors down but he couldn't just walk down and take it. He made a couple more phone calls and got nowhere so he fired off an email to the HRT honchos at Quantico bitching about it and blind copied Cullen for the hell of it.

So he was already in a pissy mood when he encountered Agents Williams, Donovan and Brown in the break room shooting the shit. It was the first time he'd seen Williams since he'd returned.

Williams spoke first, "Hey Booth, welcome back." The other agents nodded in greeting as well. Booth didn't know them real well, but he knew by reputation that Donovan was cool, an old pro, and Brown was his rookie partner.

Booth just grunted in reply such was his mood, and went straight to the coffee maker, not exactly feeling like chitchat. Not too mention that, though he knew Temperance would disapprove, he was still enough of an alpha male to resent the ass clown who'd been hitting on his girl, even though she really wasn't his at the time and still wasn't, not exactly.

But Williams didn't take the hint. He was a little different when he wasn't laying it on thick for the ladies…

"I was just telling the guys here how while you've been off learning to play Rambo I had to cover your gig with the lady scientist for you. You know, I don't envy you. She's easy on the eyes, but she sure is a cold one. That bitch's gotta be at least half Vulcan. I don't know how you put up with her."

Booth fantasized about finishing the job Bones had started on his shoulder as the other two agents laughed along with Williams' jibes. _You prick, you don't know shit. _He made himself count to three."We reached an arrangement a long while back," he matter-of-factly replied out loud, trying to behave. _Be cool… don't draw any attention…_

But Williams kept it up, "For all I know she's one of those lipstick lesbians. You know she and that glorified sketch artist are mighty chummy."

First Booth had to push aside the scorching image that charge evoked. Then as he finished fixing his mug of coffee he gave in and struck back, speaking to the other two agents, "Of course he's just got sour grapes because she was too smart to fall for his lame bullshit and kept her panties on." That scored a good laugh at William's expense from Donovan and Brown. He took a sip and made a face. Someone needed to toss this batch and make a fresh pot. He ignored Williams' vehement denials and left the breakroom.

On second thought… _Ah, what the hell_… he ducked back through the doorway…

"… or maybe he's just embarrassed because a squint girl kicked his ass." He patted his shoulder when he said it.

He left for his office without waiting for a response, wearing a shit-eating grin at the sound of the ruckus he'd stirred up as the other two agents jumped all over Williams demanding an explanation. Maybe his day would be ok after all, he thought.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

**A/N**

**Please sit back and enjoy the ride, keeping your hands inside the vehicle at all times. When we get there you you'll know it. Trust me.**

**As always, please review, sounding off if you're still out there.**


	18. Reality

**A/N**

**Here's the much delayed follow up, the Mother of All Chapters. **

**Actually it's just the _first_ part at 3,700 words. Part 2 is being posted separately.**

**And I suppose the long wait has been cruel enough :) **

**I hope you like it. See you on the other end…**

_Monday Morning, Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab, 8AM_

On Monday, reality closed in on Brennan too…

Brennan arrived at the lab determined to knock out most of the tasks which had to be finished today early so that she could make the most of whatever time Booth was able to squeeze in for his visit to the lab in the afternoon. She was eager to get on with testing the incipient relationship with him. She was still on a bit of a high from the weekend even though on Sunday she had been mostly successful in setting thoughts of him aside so she could work on the next few chapters of her book.

But that was the weekend when it had just been the two of them and things had seemed so much simpler. With Monday ugly reality began setting back in when she saw Hodgins. She had almost forgotten the entomologist's tirade Friday evening, and was not at all looking forward to dealing with the obstinate little man when he was so obnoxious and self-righteous, in full tin-foil hat mode. The last thing she wanted was to spoil her mood by getting all worked up again about him. She decided that for now she would avoid him to the extent practical, and be very cool to him when she couldn't. After a while she presumed he would finally get the point, that as Booth had put it one time, he'd 'pissed in his whiskey' one too many times.

But Hodgins apparently didn't think he had a care in the world and had the unremitting gall to stroll over amiably to where she had just finished greeting Angela and Zach, his hands in his lab coat pockets.

"So how'd the date at the shooting range go?" He was oblivious to the slitted look Angela sent his way.

Brennan decided she'd better shut that down then and there and figured some dissembling was in order. She declared frostily, "Dr. Hodgins, shooting was enjoyable, but do you really think that if it was a 'date' that Booth would have put me to work cleaning the dirty guns afterward?" She gave them all of them a defiant glare, daring them to suggest otherwise. The formality was apparently lost on Hodgins as he and Zach processed the new datum and looked disappointed. "Uh, I guess not." Angela looked skeptical but played along.

The first hour of the morning was filled with growing tension as the team worked at finalizing and cross-referencing their reports to submit for another closed case, and sensitive as she was, it was getting to Angela. The awkwardness they all felt in dealing with Hodgins was amplified by Brennan's obviously still simmering resentment, and soon they were _all_ snapping at each other somewhat, their normal easy camaraderie disrupted. Her earlier attempt to knock some sense into Jack had fallen on deaf ears. It was bad enough that even Goodman, who was out and about more than usual, noticed something was amiss. At one point he'd even attempted to corner her about it but she wouldn't play ball even though part of her wouldn't have minded ratting out Hodgins. After she'd given Goodman the slip by trotting out the ditzy artist routine, not that he actually bought it, she noticed that Brennan had retreated to the refuge of her office. She decided to follow in a little while.

- - -

Brennan rubbed her temples and tried to focus on making the final corrections to her part of the report. As much as she had wanted to try to ignore him, it seemed that she was going to have to speak her piece with Hodgins just to bleed off the tension and make her growing headache go away. But she _so_ hated making a 'scene'. They always seemed so childish and unproductive, and she while she was certainly not shy about speaking her mind she just hated emotionally charged confrontations. The thought of intentionally entering one made her stomach hurt. Worse, that negative voice was starting to nag at her that the underlying issue, her vulnerability, was Booth – and they weren't even truly in a relationship yet. The clarity of her decision Saturday night was starting to be clouded by doubt. Things would only become more complicated and messy if her personal and professional lives became further entangled.

She was diverted from this line of thought when Angela tapped at the door and entered without awaiting her response. She looked concerned as she seated herself on the couch.

"Yes?" Brennan really wasn't in the mood to be bothered, but Angela surprised her.

"I'm sorry, sweetie."

"What?"

She explained, "I chewed him out this morning before you got here, but he didn't really budge. At least he wouldn't let me see it if he had. Apparently he decided that the best thing to do was to simply play dumb, like nothing happened, and hope it went just went away. I don't know if he was being stubborn or simply chicken shit." She sighed and looked at Brennan in commiseration, "Men can be so stupid." Then she grinned wryly, "Sometimes it makes even me wonder if they're worth all the trouble."

That got a small nervous laugh from Brennan, who thought the final comment struck a little too close to home. "Me too."

But Angela surprised her with a reassuring smile, "But the best ones are. Trust me."

Brennan asked in a small voice, "Do you really think so?" She didn't know what kind of answer she wanted from her friend.

"Yes," Angela affirmed, but she didn't elaborate, at least not directly. Instead she followed up on the earlier conversation out on the lab floor. "You know, I'm not buying that bit about cleaning his guns," she said conspiratorially.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brennan said somewhat defensively.

"Sweetie, taking something apart, cleaning it, and putting it back together again sounds an awful lot like what you do with skeletons, and God knows how much you get off on that."

Brennan knew she had a lousy poker face and finally gave Angela a sheepish grin. "Guilty as charged." It was time to open up a bit with her best friend. "Actually we had a great time. I should have called you yesterday, but…"

Angela was understanding. "It's ok. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, you deserve it. You know I think the world of both you guys." She clasped her hands together and looked down at them. "I'm sorry I haven't been a better friend," she apologized.

"What?" Brennan asked.

Angela looked up and explained, "If I hadn't got carried away with all the teasing you might have felt like you could talk to me about it. That was so stupid, so high school. I should have been more supportive. I'm sorry."

Brennan really regretted not opening up to her friend. She should have known she could trust her. "I'm sorry too. I should have been more honest with you in the first place. Friends?"

Angela smiled big enough to show her dimples, "Always." She rose to her feet, "I've got to get back out there, but promise you'll talk to me later? I know you well enough to know the whole mixing business and pleasure thing has got to be bothering you."

Brennan nodded, feeling just a _little_ better.

- - -

"Thank you, Mister Addy, that will be all," Dr. Goodman coolly pronounced.

Dr. Brennan's assistant left his office in a rush, grateful to be dismissed, relief evident on the young man's nervous face. Goodman grinned diabolically at the thought that he still had his "called to the Principal's office" routine down cold, but there was no humor in it – he detested ever having the need for it.

He punched in Dr. Hodgins' extension on his speaker phone and tried to restrain his temper as it rang once, twice, three times before the man answered gruffly… "Hodgins."

Apparently he noticed Goodman's extension displayed on his phone because he instantly mouthed off before Goodmdan could say anything…

"You'd get my results on the origin of the contents of the amphora recovered from that Phoenician shipwreck if you'd quit nagging and just let me do my damned job."

Goodman felt his blood pressure rise at least fifteen points in an instant. "I am not requesting a status update on that particular overdue project. We have another matter to discuss. In my office! TWO MINUTES!" But for being on the speakerphone he probably would have been unable to refrain from slamming down the receiver. That man could goad him so.

He was already _highly_ annoyed, perhaps one might even say incensed, and, as so often seemed to be the case, the source of his annoyance lay with Dr. Jack Hodgins. No matter how talented the entomologist was in the application of his field of knowledge, he also possessed a similar talent for being the fly in Goodman's ointment. The Medico-Legal Lab of which he was director normally operated like a well oiled, finely tuned machine, but Hodgins was again acting like sand which had been thrown into the gears. Or this time more like a monkey wrench. The highly skilled team formed by Drs. Brennan and Hodgins, Mr. Addy and Ms. Montenegro was the real crown jewel of the Lab, and in conjunction with Special Agent Booth they had brought much credit to the Jeffersonian as a whole. Nothing pleased Goodman more than the interplay of their various complementary skills and the synergy which resulted when they were in proper alignment. Like all people they had personal issues which sometimes interfered with their work, but this morning when he had been out on the floor something more substantial seemed afoot.

The group was tense and oddly uncommunicative. Dr.Brennan had become very close-lipped with an obvious undercurrent of tension when he'd mentioned Dr.Hodgins. Only later, when he spoke to Mr. Addy at his station did he realize where the problem lay. He had asked him if he happened to know the status of one of Dr. Hodgins' projects, and the assistant had actually had the temerity to tell him, quite petulantly, that "If you want to know you should ask him yourself!"

One did not become an administrator, at least not a successful one, without the ability to ferret out interpersonal problems within one's organization, and deal with them before they grew too large. Most often a policy of benign neglect was appropriate, particularly when dealing with a group as quirky and cantankerous as fellow scientists, and problems usually resolved themselves. After all they were adults – yet sometimes the brightest people had the social maturity and skills of children. Ms. Montenegro, the most socially adroit of the group by far, often played the role of mediator, but even she seemed too close to this situation if her earlier behavior were any indication. Hence his intervention, unpleasant as it might get, which was why he had already seen Mr. Addy. He barely had to twist his arm at all to get to the bottom of it. In fact, once started the indignant young man had been quite forthcoming.

Goodman looked up at Hodgins' knock on his door frame. He noted that now he didn't seem quite so cocksure, thrown off by balance by Goodman's uncharacteristically blunt order to come see him, or perhaps by some glimmer of awareness of what it might actually be about.

He gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk, "Have a seat," he said curtly.

The scientist stepped inside the doorway but otherwise did not budge. " I think I'll stand, thank you."

It was apparent the shorter scientist was trying to play a dominance game by holding on to his height advantage relative to the seated administrator. Goodman would have none of it.

"SIT!"

Hodgins actually jumped, and came forward to cautiously sit in the left hand chair.

He had not planned to do it, but… _Turnabout is fair play_… Goodman played the height equals dominance card himself and rose from his seat to come around to the front of his desk, against which he leaned. In the new, closer position he towered over the seated entomologist. Goodman crossed his arms and looked down his nose as if _he_ were the one examining an insect, and Hodgins was forced to look up uncomfortably.

"I imagine you know what this is about."

Hodgins' eyes avoided his for the moment, instead first nervously searching the office as if looking for an avenue of escape. _Good._

"I'm afraid you'll have to fill me in." So… the scientist was going to be coy.

Hodgins deliberately leaned back in his chair, attempting to affect a relaxed, confident pose, but Goodman could see right through it. Hodgins' front was hampered anyway because in coming around to the front of his desk he'd intentionally entered the edge of Hodgins' personal space. The other man couldn't stretch out his legs properly and the desired effect was spoiled. Goodman cut to the chase.

"Your conduct Friday evening was despicable, utterly unbecoming a man of your position. In an earlier era your insults to Agent Booth's honor would have resulted in an invitation to coffee and pistols at dawn, and I would have gladly volunteered my services as his second, believe you me. Regardless of your private political persuasions, your slanderous remarks threaten to undermine a vital working relationship in this laboratory, and I will not tolerate your disruptions any longer! " He practically shouted the last part.

Hodgins seemed genuinely taken aback by the carefully calculated display of anger, which was not entirely feigned on his part. _Excellent._ Goodman was just getting warmed up…

- - - - -

Brennan's thoughts were still in turmoil, trying to re-read the same page for the fourth time when she was interrupted by Hodgins' knock at her office door. _Angela! _She grimaced at the thought of dealing with him before she was ready, and she didn't give a damn that he obviously saw her look of distaste. She really wished her friend had not intervened again, at least not yet.

Instead of his normal cocky self the entomologist almost looked… _chastened_… for want of a better word, hands in his lab coat pockets. But still he entered without waiting for her permission.

"Uh, Dr. Brennan, Temperance, we, uh, really need to talk."

She successfully resisted the sudden childish urge to insist she had nothing to discuss with him.

"Yes?" she answered coolly. He was going to have to work for it.

"Mind if I sit?" She nodded her assent, and he sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk instead of on the comfortable couch.

"About Friday night… I got way, way out of line with Booth. Regardless of what I think about the things HRT as done in the past, when it comes down to it the fact is he has been nothing but a friend to me even though I know I get on his nerves, sometimes even intentionally," he finished with a sardonic grin at his own expense. His expression became serious. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you telling me this? He is the one you need to apologize to," she insisted.

"I know. It's just I like to consider you a friend, and whether Booth is just your partner or your boyfriend…"

She interrupted reflexively, "He's not!"

Thankfully, Hodgins continued without arguing that particular point, "… either way, as a _friend_ I should have considered your feelings more too. Again, I'm sorry."

Brennan sat in silence for a moment before replying slowly, "Thank you, Jack."

"You're welcome, Temperance." He smiled and rose to leave.

"Just one question, Jack…" She had to ask. He turned and looked at her from near the door.

"Did Angela send you in here?" she asked.

Hodgins surprised her. He actually chuckled before answering. "Well she gave me her two cents earlier, but let's just say that Dr. Goodman took it upon himself to re-calibrate my interpersonal skills and leave it at that." He laughed again and left.

_Goodman? _She decided she'd better leave well enough alone.

She was relieved that that particular fire was on its way to being put out, but it didn't really change anything with respect to Booth and her. The larger issue still facing her was that moving forward with him would mean that the tidy compartments in which she organized her life were falling apart, hopelessly intermingling. She didn't know if she could do it. She was afraid she was being a blind fool if she moved forward, and a coward who would never deserve to be happy if she didn't.

She put her head back in her hands and missed Zach's entrance and the fact that he shrank away when he saw Hodgins, but the latter scientist clapped him on the shoulder as if to say things were ok between them.

"Dr. Brennan?"

She jumped, startled by her assistant, and looked up to see him standing right in front of her desk with a file folder for her. He flinched, apparently expecting to have his head bit off. Given how the morning had been earlier, she couldn't blame him.

"Yes, Zach?" she asked as nicely as possible. "What do you have for me?"

He smiled in relief and handed her the folder. "These are all the affidavits for you to sign for the reports that are already completed."

"Thanks." She laid the folder open on her desk, on top of the draft she'd been attempting to read and reached for the old-fashioned bladder type fountain pen she liked to use for official signatures. She had never understood why the reports, which already signed in their own right, required a separate form swearing they were factually correct to the best of her ability in order to become expert witness documents before the court.

As she was signing the different documents in triplicate something suddenly clicked and she dropped the pen, a terrifying thought occurring to her… _Oh my God…_

Why didn't she see it before? She must have been stupidly in denial.

Her status as an impartial expert had been attacked in the past by defense lawyers trying to discredit her testimony by questioning her close professional relationship with the FBI. How much worse if they caught wind of a _personal_ one? They'd have a field day. At the very least she and Booth would probably no longer be able to be partners. Worse, much worse, some sleazy but sharp lawyer might actually succeed in overturning many of the convictions they had already helped obtain in the last two years, everything they had worked for together. She was horrified. Perhaps, just perhaps, some sort of official disclosure of a relationship might head that off, but exposing her personal life like that was anathema to someone as private as herself. She had no idea how such a thing would work anyway.

The awful thing was, she needed an expert opinion on the matter and had no idea where to turn, whom to ask, where to start. The logical but absolutely last person she could talk to about it was Booth himself.

She put her head in her hands again and closed her eyes. Her headache was returning.

_I can't... I can't do this._

But some part of her still wanted to figure it out, to fight for him…

_Don't panic just yet. Talk to Angela…_

Brennan sat up straight, steeled herself and started to dial Angela's extension when the artist herself appeared in her doorway.

"Goodman needs to see us ASAP. Something about an impromptu dog and pony show for a VIP. He said we won't mind this one, and our work can wait a couple of hours. Can you believe it? He's talking about _this_ morning! God I hate the bullshit."

Utterly frustrated, Brennan took a couple deep breaths and tried to pull herself together. Spilling her guts to Angela would have to wait. But she desperately needed to talk to her before Booth arrived.

------------------------

Booth was happy to be finished earlier than expected with the tedious interview at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda and was about to reenter the District, heading southeast on Connecticut, when he noticed the time. On impulse he decided to change his plans…

He picked up the radio handset and keyed the mike, "Dispatch, 22705. I'm taking an early lunch. I'll be in later."

The radio crackled in response, "22705, Dispatch. Acknowledged."

Agents had a lot of leeway so strictly speaking he didn't need to call it in, but he figured it would spare him any unwelcome interruptions, barring the sky falling. Instead of heading back to his office at the Hoover Building he was going to surprise Bones and take her to lunch, just the two of them, kicking and screaming at gun point if needed. He grinned to himself at the image. He'd have it out with Hodgins after lunch if necessary, but until then, fuck 'im.

He felt like taking the scenic route today so before he hit DuPont Circle he would take a right and cut over to 23rd Street which would bring him to Constitution on the north side of the Mall all the way west over near the Lincoln Memorial. Washington was gorgeous in the spring time even with the throngs of tourists, and the only thing that would have made the drive better was if a certain forensic anthropologist were beside him. He grinned once more. Hell, he'd even let her drive again. Come to think of it, although today it wouldn't work, he vowed that in the next week or so he'd get a small picnic lunch and drag her out of the lab to eat at the Tidal Pool by the Jefferson Memorial where all the cherry trees were blooming in their full glory.

Life was good.

**A/N**

**Poor bastard… **

**Next chapter it all comes to a head in a big way…**

**To the couple of readers who have been getting ansty – you just have to hold on a _little_ bit longer.**

**As always, I am eager to hear your reaction, and I love specific feedback.**

**I am playing fast and loose with DC geography, not knowing exactly what the area around the Mall looks like at street level. **

**What was the second part of this monster chapter is being posted separately – combined it had grown to almost 7,400 words.**

**THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE UP VERY SOON, PERHAPS TONIGHT!**

**And trust me, it is gonna be a DOOZY!**


	19. Rotunda

**A/N**

**Here is Part 2 of the original Mother of All Chapters, clocking in at about 6,600 words (not counting the A/N!) and grown so big I was tempted to split it _again_. **

**This chapter is dedicated to _goldpiece_'s nervous stomach ache :)**

**I'll shut up now and let the work hopefully speak for itself…**

_Monday, Jeffersonian Museum, 11AM_

Brennan led the way to Goodman's office, grumbling to Angela the whole way. When they arrived he was standing with his back to the door, apparently lost in contemplation. They paused, and it was Angela knocked who on the doorframe.

He turned and sat down in his chair, "Please come in and have a seat."

Brennan took the left hand chair and Angela the right one.

Angela couldn't quite hide a smirk. _If these walls could talk._ Jack had apologized to her after he saw Tempe, and he'd even talked to _Zach_.

"Is something amusing, Ms.Montenegro?" Goodman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh, no sir." But at least Goodman was smiling. Perhaps he suspected what she was thinking. _Behave._

"Good." He clasped his hands in front of him on the desk blotter. "Dr. Brennan, I presume Ms. Montenegro filled you in on the essentials?"

"Yes sir." She wasn't bothering to hide her frown of disapproval. "Some kind of last minute 'dog and donkey' show for a visiting VIP takes priority."

Goodman's eyes widened in puzzlement at the curiously mangled expression.

Before he could speak Angela interrupted, "Excuse me." She turned to Brennan, "I think she meant 'dog and _pony_' show." Out of Goodman's line of sight below the edge of the desk, she gave her friend a kick.

At Brennan's 'Ow!", Angela didn't look at her and instead just smiled sweetly at Goodman.

The director just shook his head to recover his obviously derailed train of thought and continued without comment.

"Where was I… ah, yes, just a little while ago I received a phone call from one of the Jeffersonian's Trustees requesting a tour of the Lab as a personal favor..."

Brennan interrupted him, "Then how come _you're_ not the one giving it?"

_Wow._ She really was touchy, Angela thought. She was surprised that Goodman actually replied more or less patiently instead of snapping back at her.

"Because _you_ were the one requested by name." Goodman looked like he was enjoying himself.

Brennan was taken aback, and fortunately had the good grace to settle down. "I'm sorry for interrupting," she apologized.

"Accepted. The tour is not for the Trustee, Dr. Harkness, but rather he requested it on behalf of a new benefactor of this institution, a Mr. Joshua Pollard the Fourth. The tour is actually for his favorite niece, one Miss Emily Pollard. It is simply unfortunate that we did not have any more notice."

It still wasn't computing for Brennan. She just didn't get the connection to her.

"You mean we have to stoop to kissing babies now? When there's real work to be done?"

Goodman sat back and steepled his fingers, "In a word… yes."

Brennan could tell which way the wind was blowing but still she groaned.

"Let me provide you with some more context. As I told Ms. Montenegro, I don't think you will actually find this task too onerous." For what it was worth Goodman seemed sympathetic. "Mr. Pollard is the executor of his mother's estate. It seems the dearly departed made a bequest in her will of one million dollars to the Jeffersonian. It turns out that young Miss Pollard is entering Johns Hopkins in the fall, skipping her senior year in high school. She has her eye on a career in forensics, inspired largely by _you_. She is a fan and apparently told her uncle of the valuable work done here at the Medico-Legal Lab. He did some investigation, and at his discretion, the entire lump sum of the bequest has been specifically earmarked to _this_ Laboratory."

He leaned forward again and gripped the edge of his desk. "I trust you can do the arithmetic?" It wasn't really a question.

"Yes sir." She resigned herself to it, on _today_ of all days when she had too much on her mind as it was. But she was cornered. _Checkmate._ She looked at the ceiling and sighed.

"Really, Dr. Brennan, as I said, I think you will actually enjoy yourself. The young lady is supposed to be extremely intelligent, and I can't imagine you would want to turn your back on the chance to mentor someone of her caliber with regards to your chosen profession.

She had to admit he had her there. "What about Angela?" she asked.

"You two will meet Miss Emily and her mother Janice when the next IMAX showing is over in fifteen minutes, in the gallery outside the auditorium, and bring them back here for a tour of the lab,. You will also take them to lunch, and make them happy in general. As another woman, the Pollards may also appreciate Ms. Montenegro's charming company." His eye held a mischievous twinkle. "At least she can help you with the small talk."

"Hey!" It was clear that Angela wasn't sure if she'd received a compliment or a put-down.

Goodman chuckled at her expression. "Or you can think of it as moral support. Seriously, we want to put on a good show, and your holographic system is most impressive."

Mollified, Angela stuck out her tongue at him anyway.

"Besides, whom else should I send, one of your male colleagues?"

Both women laughed at that.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small envelope which he slid across the desk to Brennan. "That is some petty cash so you don't have to file for reimbursement for your luncheon. Make us proud. Now if you don't have any more questions that will be all."

Brennan asked, "How will we spot them?"

"I don't know. Make a sign," Goodman suggested curtly and picked up some of his paperwork. It was clear they were dismissed.

She rolled her eyes at Angela as they got up and left. Back in the hall Angela said she needed just a few minutes before they left. Brennan went back to her office to go online to determine when the current showing would be over.

- - - - - - -

"Let's go. It's showtime!"

Brennan looked up to see Angela in her doorway, the freshly made sign under her arm. She logged off her computer and joined her, taking only her key card.

After they left the lab they entered the long corridor which connected their annex to the L-shaped west wing of the actual Jeffersonian Museum. At first they both commiserated about the total lack of notice for their errand, then they briefly discussed Hodgins' apology. Brennan was pleasantly surprised to learn that not only had the man apologized to Angela, he'd even spoken to Zach. Now if only it would go as well with Booth later. Speaking of whom, she thought to herself, she was in such turmoil that she couldn't decide if she would be more angry or relieved if the 'dog and pony show' conflicted with his visit. She was a conflicted mess. She lapsed into silence, and fortunately Angela sensed it and let her be on the long walk. They were still in the secure, non-public rear of the wing filled with various offices, archives and preservation/restoration work areas.

Just when Brennan was ready to broach the subject of her feelings for Booth and her dilemma, they began running into various acquaintances in the curatorial staff. She was frustrated their talk would have to wait – she really needed to vent. They finally entered the public area through a security door which was totally non-descript on the outside but for an 'Authorized Personnel Only' sign and a key card reader. Her spirits perked up a bit because they were now in the Natural History exhibit hall. The four storey high atrium was dominated by the striking skeletons of an attacking gape-jawed _allosaurus_ and its prey, a _stegosaurus_ with its spiked tail raised in a defensive posture.

With some difficulty they quickly worked their way through the large spring time crowd full of school field trips and families vacationing on their spring breaks. Just before they reached the west entrance of the Rotunda they hung a right and entered the semi-circular Gallery which wrapped around behind the Rotunda to the east wing, and behind which was the IMAX theatre, their destination. The Gallery was crowded with a long queue snaking back upon itself full of people waiting for the next showing. The website had warned that the mid-day showtimes were regularly sold out and looking at the horde of tourists she could believe it. The architects had really designed the gallery too small in her opinion.

They waited a few more minutes off to the side, amusing themselves with observations of the human diversity on display until Brennan checked her watch again and noted the movie should already have let out. She and Angela went over to check with the usher at the velvet rope blocking the entrance.

"Excuse me, but I'm waiting for some friends to get out of the 10:15 showing. Is there a problem?"

The usher, a college-aged kid, answered, "Yes ma'am." She cringed inwardly – he made her feel old. " There were some technical difficulties with the first run this morning and it's running a little late. Instead of canceling a show they're trying to slowly get caught back up." He looked at his watch. "It should be about fifteen more minutes."

"Thanks." Angela replied for both of them, and led her over to sit on a bench in the slightly less noisy area by the south entrance to the Rotunda.

"Now that we have some time and some privacy, you are going to spill it." Angela's expression was determined.

Brennan looked at the mass of people all around their bench and smiled at Angela's definition of privacy. Then on second thought she supposed anonymity in a large crowd was effectively the same thing.

She started to open her mouth and paused, not having the slightest idea where to begin…

Angela went directly to the heart of the matter. "What's going on? All last week you were very happy, if a little nervous, about Booth coming back. You told me you had a great time with him, but today you don't seem very happy at all, a bundle of nerves as a matter of fact. What's wrong?

"Nothing," she said, "…and everything." She sighed, knowing she wasn't making any sense.

Angela persisted, confident in her ability to 'fix' things. "Let me guess. You ended up having fantastic sex with a hot guy you work with, but now it's Monday and you regret it?"

"No!" Angela was half right.

"The sex was terrible?"

"No!" Brennan couldn't help herself and laughed at Angela's expression of utter disbelief.

"You're upset because you _didn't_ have sex?"

Now she knew Angela was using humor to coax her into opening up, and she didn't mind her friend's machinations. It was working.

She laughed once more. "No."

Then she continued more quietly, "We haven't even _kissed_. I think we almost did, a couple of times, but he's moving very slowly.."

Angela sighed and patted her hand. "Oh, sweetie… it's not about sex at all, is it." It was more of a statement than a question.

Brennan nodded in agreement. "We had an absolutely wonderful time together, Saturday as well as Friday night, but _today_…" She threw up her hands. She hated the way she sounded so weak and whiny.

"I know… you think you might really be in love with him. Yesterday it wasn't so scary, but today you're overwhelmed." Angela nailed it.

Although she had assiduously avoided the L-word herself, Brennan softly said, "Yes," simply grateful that Angela understood these things that confused her so much. She felt foolish for not more fully confiding in her friend sooner.

Angela continued, "You know you're right to be concerned about mixing up work and your personal life, but you're also afraid you might miss out on the real thing."

She nodded again, "Moving forward with him feels like taking a foolish risk, one I that can plainly see, but I feel like I'm being a coward if I don't. I _want_ to be with him, but all I see are problems."

She proceeded to tell Angela about her latest fears regarding her expert witness status, but her friend interrupted her.

"Sweetie, that's definitely a case of getting the cart before the horse. If there's no relationship then that's all moot. If there _is_ a relationship, and it's a great one, then it may be worth the inconvenience and risks anyway."

Brennan couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You call a threat to our partnership, to my _career_, an 'inconvenience'?"

Angela persevered, "I'm sorry, perhaps that wasn't the best choice of words, but look at it this way… your partnership with Booth could end at _any_ time anyway. The FBI does mandatory transfers of agents all the time. Would you want to let him leave you without ever knowing how you feel about him?"

"No." She knew about the transfers but had not thought about it lately.

"Well looking at it another way, if the price of being with him was not working together as partners any more, wouldn't it still be worth it if he _was_ yours every night, every weekend?"

Brennan licked her lips before answering in a small voice, "Maybe." She desperately wanted to believe her friend but couldn't quite let go of her fears.

Angela had one more argument to make, one that dredged up painful memories of her own.

"Remember our talk after Kirk died?"

"Yes," she said simply.

Angela continued, "When I told you I regretted not letting Kirk into my life more than our three weeks a year, you said that at least then I had him one hundred percent, which was more than you'd ever had."

Brennan nodded without saying anything, looking down at her hands on her lap.

Angela went on trying to get through to her, "I think Booth is your shot at that one hundred percent. You told me that the universe is such a big place that I will find real love again some day." She paused.

Brennan looked back up at Angela and nodded again.

"Well I haven't, not yet. The fact is that we may only get one chance, if that. I will never stop regretting keeping Kirk at arms' length. I guess I just assumed he would always be there, that I could always let him in later. I was wrong."

Brennan felt her eyes tear up, and it was her turn to squeeze Angela's hand. She had not known it still troubled her so.

"Sweetie, I just don't want you to make the same mistake out of fear. As hard as it is for you, sometimes you need to let your heart lead instead of your head."

Brennan could barely speak. "I'll try," came out in a croak.

Angela gave her her best full dimple smile, "That's all I can ask for."

Brennan felt her spirits lift and couldn't help but smile back. She wondered what she had ever done to deserve such wonderful friend. She followed up with a quiet question of her own…

"Do you think he… _loves_ me?"

Angela replied, "I think you already have a good idea what the answer is to that question. And he'll have to tell you himself at some point. But, for what it's worth, Booth is more devoted to you than a lot of _husbands_. He has been for a long time."

Brennan nodded at the simple truth of it.

Angela wasn't quite finished with her. "Will you promise me something?"

"What?" she asked cautiously.

"Just be… open… even though it can be scary. Don't panic and shut him out. Deal?"

"Deal." Brennan hugged her tight.

"Oh, and one more thing…"

Brennan pulled back and looked at her askance, unable to imagine what _else_ there could possibly be to discuss.

"Promise to talk to me sooner next time? And I'll promise to listen first and tease later."

"Always." Brennan hugged her best friend again. "Thank you."

"I just want you to be happy. _Both_ of you. You two deserve it." Angela gave her a squeeze and let her go before looking at her watch again. "The movie should be letting out any minute." It was about time.

"Where's the sign?" Brennan asked.

Angela looked around and retrieved the missing sign from the floor beside their bench. It had the last name "Pollard" which she'd actually hand-lettered in a flowery script with an honest-to-God manual calligraphy pen using bottled ink. They both got up and headed toward the IMAX exits to find the girl Emily and her mother.

Brennan chuckled, "It would be a shame for all your hard work on it to be wasted."

The artist stuck out her tongue at her as she held up the sign in front of her. "This is so stupid. I feel like I'm picking up someone at the airport."

Just then the pair of double doors opened and the crowd began boiling out into the gallery between the theater and the rotunda which was already packed with the line of people waiting for the next sold-out showing.

They stood there, feeling like idiots, not having the slightest idea for whom they were looking other than a woman and her teenaged daughter. Come to think of it, Brennanfelt doubly foolish because realized she had simply assumed they were Caucasian, which might not be the case at all. Fortunately their suspense was ended when a well dressed blonde woman in her late forties and a gawky but otherwise cute brunette girl with glasses approached them first.

The woman addressed her tentatively, "Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes, that's me. Mrs. Pollard I presume?" She held out her hand and they shook.

"Call me Janice, please." She turned toward her daughter, "This is Emily."

"Pleased to meet you." They shook as well. Brennan remembered her manners and introduced Angela, who noticed that the daughter was holding Brennan's first novel with her photo on the back of the dust jacket. She laughed, "Another fan I see. I didn't need this thing after all." She tossed the sign in to a nearby trash can.

Apparently that emboldened the otherwise shy girl, who in some ways reminded Brennan of herself at that age, "While we're here could you sign my book?"

"Emily!" Apparently her mother thought she was being pushy.

"It's ok. I don't get recognized in public so signing autographs is still a bit of a thrill for me too." Brennan took a pen out of her pocket and signed her usual 'Best Wishes…' scrawl. She'd try to think of something else to personalize it more after getting to know her.

In spite of admonishing her daughter seconds earlier, Janice apparently shared the innate ability of all parents to embarrass their teenaged offspring.

"She really is your biggest fan. On the drive in she was just asking me if I thought she'd be able to find out if the love interest in your story is based on a real man in your life."

"Mother!" Emily was obviously mortified.

Angela noted apparently she wasn't the only one as Brennan wasted no time at all reflexively pooh-poohing the notion with her stock disclaimer.

"All of the characters in my novels are purely fictitious."

Angela found that particularly hilarious given the subject of the heart-to-heart they had just had. She a put a hand over her mouth to hide her grin at her friend's unmistakable discomfiture as Brennan hurriedly changed the subject.

"So… Dr. Goodman says you're interested in forensics and going to Johns Hopkins next year?"

The girl answered shyly but proudly, "Yes, Dr. Brennan…"

Brennan interrupted, "Please, call me Temperance."

Emily gave her a grateful smile, warming up some more, "Yes, Temperance. I haven't decided if I want to do it by way of medicine or physical anthropology. At least I don't have to make up my mind for a while longer."

"Well one of the deciding factors should be if you want to be bothered with _live_ patients or not along the way." She smiled at Emily's laugh in response. Perhaps Goodman was right – she just might enjoy herself after all.

After a little more small talk with Janice and Emily, it was Angela who finally made the suggestion, "It's so noisy in here, why don't we head on back to the lab?"

Emily was eager. "That would be fantastic."

As they started to move Brennan thought of something…

"Are you going to tour the rest of the museum after visiting the lab and having lunch with us?"

Janice looked at her daughter before replying, "Yes, absolutely. It seems several of the big exhibits have changed since the last time we were here years ago. But probably just for an hour or so at most. I'm afraid we really need to leave before rush hour."

She could definitely help them out. "Do you have the brochure?"

Emily checked her pockets and came up empty. "I guess it fell out in the theater."

"No problem. Let me go get one and I'll mark it up for the exhibits which I think you'll find the most interesting. Wait right here." They were just outside the south opening of the Rotunda directly opposite the museum entrance.

"That would be wonderful! Thank you."

Brennan entered the Rotunda, which was thankfully somewhat less crowded than the Gallery. She was looking for the small stand of brochures which seemed to migrate around the place, which she finally located but only to find it empty. She crossed the Rotunda toward the buildings' foyer at the front where she knew several volunteers were always passing them out to entering visitors.

As always, she spared a moment to look around her as she walked. The subtly elegant Rotunda, particularly late on a quiet evening, inspired in her a rare feeling of what might be called reverence. As sappy as it sounded, her museum really was a temple of learning, a bulwark of civilization. It evoked in her a mood that she imagined must be like what Booth felt in a quiet cathedral. Just before she entered the foyer she patted the case of an old friend, the nearly 3,400 year old remains of an Egyptian priest-physician dating from the 18th Dynasty reign of one of the Amenhoteps. The mummy in its nitrogen filled display case and its elegant sarcophagus upright beside it were the first exhibits to greet visitors on this side of the Rotunda.

She obtained a brochure from one of the senior citizen volunteers, a short silver-haired man who vaguely reminded her of her grandfather, only kinder. After thanking him she turned around to head back inside, but for some reason her eye was caught by a cute little redheaded girl waiting in the line of people having their bags checked by Security. The little girl smiled sweetly and waved at her, totally oblivious to the adults around her apparently aggravated by the man at the front of the line whose backpack was holding things up. Brennan couldn't resist smiling, and waved back before continuing.

As she turned she practically bumped into two white-shirted security guards, one of whom she recognized from the Lab.

"Hi, Bob. What are you doing up here today?"

He was so intent on where he was going, it took him a second to recognize her. "Oh, hi, Dr. Brennan! They stepped up our rotation schedule. If you'll excuse me, I _really_ have to go help out up front." He gestured to the growing line behind her and moved to catch up with his partner.

He seemed in a hurry and she didn't want to hold him up. "Sure. See you around."

She had just reentered the Rotunda and passed the mummy again when she heard a man's shout behind her cut short by the world-shattering explosion that blew her off her feet.

- - - - -

Lost in thought Booth had been driving on auto-pilot and so was surprised to already see the Ellipse and the White House in the distance to his left off Constitution. Immediately ahead to his right he could see the Washington Monument, and through the trees beyond it, he could just make out part of the Jeffersonian on the south side of the Mall. A couple of yellow school buses were just leaving the front of the museum's main entrance. He suddenly had to brake for the traffic backed up from the light at 14th Street which he almost hadn't seen in time while he was getting his bearings. 14th was where he would turn to cut across the Mall just past the Monument to get to the lab.

He was still shaking his head at almost ruining his lunch plans by causing a traffic accident in his official vehicle when the intermittent muted chatter on the FBI radio was interrupted by four rapid squawks. All foolishness left his head -- that was _always_ a bad sign. He turned the volume back up.

"Calling all mobile units. Situation Tango, repeat, situation Tango! Apparent suicide bombings just reported in Union Station and the Judiciary Square Metro station, with substantial casualties. Teams are already en route from HQ. All other agents hold your current position report in on alternate channels. Await further orders. Secret Service is responding to a vehicle explosion on H Street at Lafayette Park behind the White House. Repeat, Situation Tango."

He slapped the dash. "God dammit!" It had always been just a matter of time, but they didn't have the slightest warning. The alert level was not elevated at all.

He changed the channel and keyed the mike, "Dispatch, 22705…"

He reported his position and was told to sit tight. It was obviously a coordinated attack and they were waiting to see if another shoe was going to drop, so no point in bunching up agents prematurely. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Traffic was congested enough that there was little point in turning on his flashers. The light should change any second anyway. While he waited he tried to call Temperance's cell number to warn her to sit tight and check the news but he couldn't get through at all. "Sonuvabitch!" After trying once more he had to resist the urge to throw his phone out the window – he'd just remembered that one of the contingency plans called for cutting or jamming all mobile phone service in the immediate aftermath since the phones were an excellent poor man's remote control for a detonator. She was going to have to look after herself. He had to settle for reminding himself that security in the Lab was actually pretty good.

The light finally changed and traffic started moving again. He turned right, where he'd been going to cross the Mall anyway, to get out of the major traffic flow which was going to get snarled up any minute with roadblocks and emergency vehicles. This was as good a place as any to wait. He immediately saw a clear spot on the opposite side of the street and cut across traffic to pull up onto the sidewalk on the left side. He had to honk a couple of times to clear a gaggle of tourists out of the way. This left him facing the famous "Museum Row" of the Mall's east end, with the Reflecting Pool and the Capitol Building in the distance – "Target Row" in his view. All three of the spots hit so far were off to the north or northwest, and he had a _very_ bad feeling in his gut.

In his desperate need for more information he satisfied his senses by cutting the engine, rolling down all the windows of the SUV, and muting the radio volume again. In the distance he could hear the sirens of a fleet of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances together with what must be dozens of car alarms and at least one chopper in the air. They were responding while he had to ignore the nearly overpowering urge to go help and instead twiddle his thumbs while he waited for hopefully _nothing_ to happen. Gambler that he was there was no way in hell he'd bet on that.

Booth debated with himself as to whether or not he should get out his rifle and set up just in case. On the other hand he didn't want to cause a panic, and it wasn't like it was open season on guys wearing backpacks anyway. Just as he reached for the radio to ask for advice, he heard what he'd been fearing, the sound of an explosion. The sharp report echoed off the buildings in the area making it hard to determine its location. He grabbed the small binoculars he kept in the console, opened his door and stood on the edge of door frame, his head above the SUV's roof, using the extra height to try to locate the source. He quickly scanned the Mall, beginning with the National Museum of American History which was nearly due east, then the Natural History Museum, the Gallery, the Capitol building at the far end, and finally around past the Smithsonian to almost directly south to the Jeffersonian, several football fields away, where he saw a faint cloud of dust and smoke, shattered windows across most of the front entrance, and the bodies of several victims at the top of the steps... some of whom must surely be dead given how badly they were mangled. Bright red arterial blood was already starting to flow down the steps. He noticed an African-American maintenance worker leaning out of an upper storey window to the right of the entrance using his radio, no doubt calling for help as he too surveyed the devastation.

First Booth's blood ran cold. _Fucking bastards! Animals..._ Then he tried to suppress the hot rage he felt growing within him. This was _his_ city, _his_ house. He'd come to think of the Jeffersonian as a second home. _Motherfuckers're gonna pay._ But to make sure that happened he had a job to do in the meantime. He took one deep breath and let it out slowly. _Gotta be cool, make it count…_

He hopped down then noticed his hand was shaking as he reached back into the vehicle for the walkie-talkie style transceiver with the corded mike – which also made him vow to find and beat the crap out of the bureaucrat who'd denied him a proper radio earlier --, and he paused for a second, making it stop by force of will. _Steady…_ this was no time for the shakes, not yet, not by a damn sight. It was going to be a long day.

He radioed it in, trying to keep his voice level, cool, professional, "Dispatch, 22705. There's been another attack, an explosion at the Jeffersonian..."

The only consolation as he reported the few details he had was the knowledge that Temperance and the rest of the squints should be safe back in the lab, which was in an annex off the west wing, well away from the public areas and not an obvious target for any terrorists.

- - - - - -

Brennan slowly recovered from her initial shock where she lay on the floor bruised and stinging with dozens of cuts amidst broken glass and other rubble, her sharpest sensation being a burning pain deep in her left calf which upon examination was now bloody, with a deep puncture wound to the gastrocnemus muscle which felt like it still contained the shrapnel. Next she pulled an inch long bloody shard of glass out of her left triceps, but it did not hurt nearly as much as the leg. She ignored the myriad lesser lacerations, abrasions, and contusions. The ringing in her ears at first prevented her from hearing the wounded and panicked people she vaguely noted away from her. She could more clearly smell the smoke made acrid by whatever explosive must have been used as well as the iron tang of fresh blood mixed with the fouler stench of charred flesh and a whiff of fecal matter.

But her eyes worked all too well as she began to right herself -- she could not stop staring at the nearby overturned and shattered case of the priceless mummy where a woman's leg lay with the ancient remains spilled out on to the floor. It had been violently severed at the knee, the bloody patella still dangling from the tibia by the patellar ligament, but somehow the most disturbing thing, which made the horror all too real, was the white sneaker bright with spattered blood.

She remained there on her hands and knees, fixated on the limb in a daze for several long seconds. She then turned to look back at the destroyed foyer and instantly regretted it. She tried to be clinical as she viewed the carnage: the surfaces pockmarked by shrapnel, the smoldering debris, the obvious corpses and the body parts, some still steaming. She made herself ignore what she realized were the badly mangled remains of one of the security guards thrown near her, perhaps Bob with whom she'd just spoken, and she forced herself not to look for the grandfatherly volunteer or the little girl. But there was yet one more shock that rocked her tenuous hold on detachment. In the middle of the devastation there lay the more or less intact head of what must have been the suicide bomber, somehow eerily spared by the outward blast of his exploding bomb vest.

- - - - -

Booth leaned into the vehicle again to trigger the powered liftgate. He was going to check the big first aid kit before driving over to help the wounded, but he still kept his eyes on the museum a few hundred yards away while the gate was rising. The earlier crowd out front had dissipated, those not killed, wounded, or merely bowled over by the blast running the rest of the way down the broad front steps and scattering in either direction along Jefferson, the narrow street out front. He could easily hear some of the screams and cries all the way over here, but he was pleased to note a few bystanders that were made of sterner stuff. A half dozen men were actually heading _up_ the steps, and he thanked God for good Samaritans. He took a one more glimpse through the binoculars and saw that one of the men already near the top of the steps was looking upward, talking to someone.

Booth remembered the maintenance guy in the upper window and tracked upward, finding him in the same spot. It took him half a second for the incongruity of binoculars around the man's neck to sink in. Suddenly that clicked with the fact that most of the men below were wearing jackets in the most horrifying _Eureka_ moment of his life – the man in the window was one of the bad guys, a _spotter_, a traitor on the inside, and it meant the shit wasn't through hitting the fan yet.

Jut as Booth was about to drop his binoculars and run to the back of the SUV his worst fears were confirmed: one of the men pulled out a folding stock 'paratrooper' AK from underneath his jacket and cut down one of the others, apparently a _real_ good Samaritan in the wrong place at the wrong time. The short burst of fire sent the stragglers in the fleeing crowd screaming in terror all over again. At the same instant the one man closest to the top of the steps started running full speed toward the entrance.

"SHIT!"

Booth tossed the binoculars on the seat and ran for the back of the SUV. The backpack the running guy was wearing certainly contained a bomb – he was the only one who had not produced a rifle. It was a race to see if he could get _his_ rifle into play before the shooters made it inside, and the stakes were life and death... and he'd been totally suckered.

"Get back, FBI!" he shouted at the gawkers in his way at the back of the vehicle.

- - - - -

Brennan realized her hearing was starting to return as the sound of her own pounding pulse slowly gave way to the still muffled screams and cries for help. Looking at the damage wrought on this side of the Rotunda, and given the fact she appeared to be the only one relatively unscathed this close to the blast, she could only conclude that the now fallen sarcophagus must have partially shielded her. Adrenaline starting to surge as the fight or flight reflex instinct kicked in, she awkwardly struggled to her feet. She had just managed to stand, favoring her hurt leg, before she was nearly knocked down again as a man rushed past her into the Rotunda. She could just make out his repeated shouts as he rounded the corner toward the Security office, "Allahu Akhbar!" Arabic for 'God is great', before the concussion of another explosion tore at the building. She fell once more.

- - -

Booth forced himself to ignore the rumble of the new explosion deeper in the bowels of the museum as he set down the transceiver and focused on the most important task in the entire world, dialing the combination of the big arms locker perfectly the first time. Mercifully the locked lid opened and he lunged at the case of the PSG-1 sniper rifle which he tore open. He pulled out the rifle and snatched a 20 round magazine. As he stepped around the side of the SUV for a clear view of the building he inserted the mag, yanked back the charging handle on the left forestock and let it go, the rifle jerking as the first round in the mag was slammed into the chamber by the closing bolt. No time for finesse, he flipped up the cap over the front of the scope, and toggled off the safety as he brought the rifle up to his shoulder to shoot from an un-braced standing position, a real stretch at nearly 400 meters. He acquired the entrance of the museum through the scope just in time to see the last gunman escape inside, and he quickly scanned the top of the steps hoping against hope for a shot. _ Goddammit!_ He'd lost the race.

No luck with a second chance either -- the glare of the brightly sunlit building exterior made it impossible to see into the interior, dark by comparison, for any distance. Even if he could have seen a target just inside, he couldn't be sure about the background in case his round penetrated or missed.

Reluctant to give up, he continued scanning the front of the building for a few more seconds before finally lowering the rifle in defeat. Blinking back tears of frustrated, impotent rage he wanted to hit something, _hard_. His right hand let go of the pistol grip and balled into a fist on its own, but he managed to suppress the instinctive urge to punch the only thing handy, the SUV. Breaking his trigger hand would have left him even more fucked than he already was -- the near loss of control helped sober him. He stepped back into the shadow of the liftgate and radioed in the new developments in a voice artificially devoid of emotion while watching the building.

In the distance he could hear the scattered pops of gunfire from inside the museum.

He was an elite sniper with nothing to shoot at, who'd let his targets get away.

He had failed, and more innocent people were probably dying this very instant as a result.

In other words he was fucking useless.

**A/N – long this time, but please read.**

**Poor guy – all the above action takes place within just a couple _minutes_ of the first bomb, and there is no way humanly possible that Booth could have done any better but that won't stop him from blaming himself. **

**I hope the long, long delay to get here was worth it for my faithful readers.**

**If, after the long buildup to get you invested in my version of Booth & Brennan, I didn't get at least a couple of WTFs, OMGs or 'Holy $hits!' out of you while reading this chapter then I have failed.**

**Since this chapter is so long, and I passed on the opportunity to split it in two (tand a chance to milk more reviews, LOL), I would appreciate some longer reviews if possible. Once it was big enough, breaking it right after Brennan is blown up the first time could have worked, but I decided to pass on the cheap cliffhanger and instead keep going, allowing the tension to continue to build.**

**BTW, how's that stomach now, goldpiece? _cues diabolical laughter_**

**This chapter _should_ have been dedicated to all of you who apparently forgot this story is not just a romance (part of the master plan, actually). Go back and read the original story summary on mammoth chapter probably needed to sit for a day or so and get another once over, from stem to stern, but I was tired of wrestling it and you were tired of waiting for it. **

**FWIW I have no beta reader. All typos, errors and general stupidity are my own. **

**I do want to thank _a2zmom_ for some advice along the way.**

**PLEASE REVIEW AWAY… and if you've never reviewed me but have been reading, now's the time if you're ever going to do it! Anonymous reviews are turned on.**

_**A few other points…**_

**I am taking artistic license with the layout of the Jeffersonian, assuming that the exterior shot we always see with the fountain is just the building housing the Medico-Legal Lab and not the museum proper.**

**Oh, and if you want to know what the sniper rifle looks like, search LiveJournal for user newscaper, and scroll down to the post for the first chapter.**

**The bit about finding the bomber's head is for real – the force of a bomb vest goes inward and outward radially, obliterating the torso and nearby objects/people, but not directly upward. The Israelis know all about it.**

**In general, in this story nearly everything that looks like a fact actually Is one.**

**One more thing – the chapters will be generally be going back to more manageable lengths – that will also let me update more frequently. Funny thing is, I've had some of the later parts more nailed down than things in the middle.**


	20. Reaction

**A/N**

**Approx 2,700 words.**

**There will be some more POV hopping between different locations and again it is not exactly in real time – IOW they will overlap by the clock. Also, it may take you longer to read about certain events or thought processes than it does for them to actually take place.**

Booth ignored the voices on the radio for the moment and shook himself. He needed to pull his head out of his ass and leave the self-pity for later. These bastards had slipped past him, but he still had a job to do. He could only help the people he'd let down if he was focused when another opportunity presented itself to take them out. And the instinctive urge to go charging in the front door right now had to be suppressed because it would accomplish nothing. Instead there was a method to this sort of madness.

"Shoot now, shit later," he reminded himself out loud using the phrase his first drill instructor at Fort Benning had burned into his brains in Basic training all those years ago as the number one rule of combat. No truer words had ever been spoken by a soldier. He needed to become that near contradiction in terms, a highly discriminating killing machine. He closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths and let the emotion drain away, not gone, but put aside to be dealt with later. _Still got it._ He was almost calm. He smiled grimly. _Back to work._

After all, there actually was one piece of unfinished business he _could_ do something about…

He took another look through the binoculars. They were a lower power magnification than the 6x rifle scope, but they had a broader field of view which made finding the spotter again easier. _Gotcha!_ Better yet, the spotter apparently still had not seen him – which was his first bit of luck since he'd exposed himself like a damned fool a minute ago. At the moment he wasn't even using his binoculars, and the radio was laid on the window sill before him. Apparently the elm trees and parked cars lining the street had kept Booth from standing out too much against the background.

Looking at the broader front of the building he could see small groups of people escaping through the fire exits off to either side. The occasional sound of small arms fire still made it to him from inside the museum.

The radio crackled again and his name caught his attention.

"Booth, are you there? This is Cullen. Local SWAT and a mobile command post are about ten to fifteen minutes out, and a full HRT team coming in by helo from Quantico is probably forty minutes out. Some PD units are already on the way to block traffic and start an outer perimeter. I'm heading down to the Ops Center to meet your Critical Incident Response Group guys. Keep us informed. You've got this channel to yourself. Over."

He keyed the mike, "Got it. Uh, Roger."

The soldier in him had been screaming to take out their eyes and he had a small window in which to do it. Once the terrorists had established their own perimeter and made demands, shooting any of them would be a provocation bringing reprisals against the hostages, and was to be avoided unless it was part of a full assault. But _before_ then, any casualties they took in the act of _their_ assault were fair game in a sense. It sounded insane, but that's the way the psychology worked.

That is, he _hoped_ they were interested in taking hostages and not just hosing down the crowd – the negotiation game would start and play itself out, and that meant there would be some time in which a rescue could be prepped and mounted. But even then he had no illusions about negotiations – all the signs were that these were Islamic terrorists all too pumped for martyrdom -- which he'd be more than happy to assist them with. None of them had bothered to cover their faces, always a bad sign – they didn't care about being ID'ed. Hell, they probably _wanted_ it for fame back home.

Plus, he knew where the spotter was for the moment, but the man could spot him at any time and pick a better hidden vantage point.

But there was one problem with taking out the spotter – best he could tell the man was unarmed and was not himself directly an imminent danger to anyone. And that was a problem for his law enforcement side. But he was an indirect threat to any assault team and would have to be taken out at some point. The soldier said do it _now_. He considered kicking the problem upstairs and asking for guidance, but he knew that some lawyers over at Justice would spend too much time in a circle jerk before coming back with the answer, 'No'.

He shook his head. There was no time. His dad used to love the expression, "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission," and it seemed all too appropriate now. But still he was troubled – he could still clearly hear Hodgins' voice, full of scorn, "If you see 'em, shoot 'em." But then he remembered Temperance saying she knew he would do his best to make the hard choices. Well this was certainly one of them…

He made up his mind, and he prayed that he was doing the right thing. The shooters were inside because of _him_. It was his responsibility. He would do what he had to do, and just have to leave the rest up to God and the Attorney General.

Decision made, he started to take off his suit coat but then thought better of it – the black material was less visible than his white shirt even though it was going to get hot. Still staying in the cover provided by the SUV, he verified the distance to the front steps of the Jeffersonian using the rangefinder from his locker. _Three hundred ninety-two meters. _ Well within the 600m range of the PSG-1, which could reliably put _fifty_ rounds in a three inch circle at 300m. He put the rangefinder back. At this distance the 2,850 feet per second muzzle velocity of the match grade .308 ammo meant his rounds would have a travel time downrange to the target of barely half a second.

He picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder, then grabbed another loaded twenty round magazine he tucked in a pocket. _Ah, screw it._ He took up two more mags. Eighty rounds, counting the load already in the PSG-1, were enough for a freakin' _war_ in 'one shot, one kill' sniper terms, but there was no point in half measures today.

Booth put the binocular strap over his head, placed a sandbag he had in back on the ground, and picked up the transceiver. He closed the liftgate to make the SUV less conspicuous and quickly went around to the passenger side, which was out of view of the spotter, and opened the rear door. He wanted to shoot prone for stability, and had decided to use the SUV for a little elevation. He tossed his gear up on the roof, being more careful with the rifle and its scope, then went back and picked up the sandbag which he was going to use as a rest instead of the miniature tripod that was part of the PSG-1's kit. He noticed that several of the bystanders he'd chased off a minute ago had come closer again. The last thing he needed was his own fan club to draw the spotter's eye.

He ordered them back in his best 'command' voice, "You people move back NOW, across the street!" He pointed then said in a more normal voice. "Otherwise you might get shot at." That seemed to get their attention a little better, but he turned his back without waiting to see what they did -- he really didn't have time for this shit.

He stepped up on the kickplate of the opened door and levered himself up onto the roof, trying to keep a low profile as he did so. He ignored the discomfort of the rooftop rack as he set up. He moved the extra mags, binoculars and transceiver so they would be in reach in to his left, and put the sandbag in front of him as he stretched out on his belly facing the museum. He also ignored something else – the urge to piss just before going in to action had never failed him.

Booth pulled the rifle up from alongside him and situated the barrel hand guard on the sandbag, taking hold of the pistol grip with his right hand. He clicked the elevation adjustment knob on the scope from 300m to 400m , closer to the actual range. Next he licked a finger and tested the wind. A 10mph crosswind would shift his rounds thirteen inches at 400 yards, requiring compensation. _Barely moving. Good._ He looked at the banners on the light poles in front of the museum for confirmation, and they were sluggish. He gave the windage knob a single click.

He got on his elbows, brought the rifle butt to his shoulder, and settled his face against the elevated cheekpiece on the stock which perfectly aligned his right eye with the rubber eyecup of the scope. The various ergonomic adjustments on the high end rifle meant it fit him like an extension of his body. He flicked the safety off, rested his trigger finger against the outside of the trigger guard, and slewed the rifle to acquire the spotter again through the scope…

He stopped, lifted his head back up from the scope, and stared off into space, seeing nothing for the moment.

Although the man was no ordinary criminal, as far as Booth knew he had directly harmed no one. And this wasn't war, at least not quite. He shivered. What he'd almost done would probably be considered murder. The fact that no one else would probably ever have been the wiser as to the precise circumstances was irrelevant – _he_ would know, damn it. He couldn't do it. He flicked the switch back to 'Safe'.

No, he'd just have to play the waiting game for now. He lowered his head to look again through the scope, and located the spotter again. But this time he received a shock. As he noted that the spotter now had the binoculars raised to his face as he scanned the Mall, Booth saw something he had not caught through the lower power binoculars – the long barrel of what looked like a hunting rifle leaning against the window sill. The sons of bitches had brought their own sniper! Not taking his eye off the other man, Booth reached with his left hand for the radio to report just as he received another shock – the spotter/sniper gave a start, lowered his binoculars briefly to orient himself, and raised them again, it seemed looking directly at his position. _Dammit!_ The other man suddenly dropped the binoculars and reached…

Without any conscious thought Booth dropped the radio, grabbed the forestock, flicked off the safety, took a deep breath, let half of it out and held it briefly as he squeezed off two rounds, the heavy weight of the rifle absorbing nearly all of the recoil. He fired the second round so quickly that the first was still in the air heading downrange. In quick succession they reached the target, and the sniper's head exploded before he dropped from view inside the room. His shots still echoed from buildings along the Mall. There were a few screams from the onlookers behind him.

_Forty-four._

Booth exhaled the rest of the held breath then breathed heavily again before settling down. He watched the empty window frame through the scope for a few more seconds as he considered what he'd just done. Lord help him, for the moment at least, he felt nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done.

But for the rest of his life he'd never know for sure whether the other man had been reaching for the gun or the radio.

He quit woolgathering and reached for his radio. There was more work to be done.

_Clip-Clop Clip-Clop, Clip-Clop. Clop, Clip, Clop._

Booth must not have heard it sooner because the ringing in his ears caused by the muzzle blasts was still fading. Before he could react he heard an authoritative voice…

"Identify yourself, mister! NOW! Nice and slow…"

Letting go of the rifle he rolled on to his left side to face the rider, a grim-faced woman in the uniform of the National Park Police. On horseback she was as high as he was, but the main thing he noticed was her drawn Glock held in both hands. It wasn't _quite_ aimed at him, but it was close enough and she held it steady as the horse fidgeted restlessly under her. She'd dropped the reins and was controlling her lathered mount with just her knees.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. I'm reaching for my ID."

Moving slowly, he retrieved it with one hand and offered it to her. She nudged the horse closer and reached out with her left hand to take his eye ID, otherwise keeping well out of his reach. He noted her good technique with professional interest – she'd kept her still drawn pistol in her right hand pulled back so he couldn't grab it, and she backed away a few feet before checking his ID.

"Ok, sorry about that." She tossed the ID back and holstered her pistol. "Nobody said FBI was on scene yet."

"I'm afraid I'm it for now. I just happened to be headed this way and beat the rush."

"Well we just hauled ass from a couple blocks over." She patted the horse with one hand and waved behind her shoulder toward the Washington Monument with the other. "Heard about the bombing then about a man with a rifle." She pointed toward the Jeffersonian. "What's up with the fireworks?"

"I had to take out a sniper." He didn't elaborate.

"Shee-it. So it's not just a bomber." She made a face. "Fucker had it comin' I guess. How can I help?"

"Main thing is to get these people back, at _least_ to Constitution." That was the main street he'd turned off a hundred feet back. In the other direction, south on 14th, he could see where a Washington PD cruiser with flashers on had already blocked off the intersection with Independence a block behind the Jeffersonian. Help was on the way, but there was still no one yet taking charge of the people who'd fled the museum.

"I'm on it." With that the NPP officer drew her baton as she trotted off and started shouting at the rubber-neckers in crowd control mode.

That taken care of, Booth ignored her and turned back to the Jeffersonian for the nastiest surprise yet, after the fact of the attack itself -- he'd missed the arrival of the obviously heavily loaded utility van that careened to a halt at the base of the front steps.

And out of which more armed men began jumping.

**A/N**

**You may disagree with my portrayal of Booth above, but IMO his opening up to Brennan and her support in this story have helped him become more functional as a sniper. Note he is an actor here and not just following orders.**

**Please R&R. Anonymous reviews ARE turned on!**


	21. Resolve

**A/N**

**Sorry for the long delay again, but you can call this one Son of the Mother of All Chapters – and it has actually split into two parts as well. I originally was going to have a Brennan chapter followed by a Booth chapter, but then realized it would be better mixed up a little. Further, to get the timing right I had to go ahead and write both of them together at the same time anyway, for about 7000 words total before I could finish either thread. **

**Here is the first half of the resulting product at approx. 3800 words. The second part is very nearly finished and may be up tonight. I would appreciate if you would review them separately even if you read them back to back.**

**For best effect you should probably go back and reread starting with the first bomb blast at the museum in chapter 19. The alternating POVs are continuous in that Booth takes up exactly where he leaves off, and Brennan does too. **

**BTW, I still have a few curveballs left in these last few chapters :) I hope you will enjoy them… **

_Jeffersonian Museum Rotunda, immediately after the second bomb…_

Brennan picked herself up again. Apparently her capacity to be shocked and stunned had already been overloaded because she became minimally functional much more quickly this time. Fortunately for her, most of the second explosion took place within the security offices and the blast had therefore been more confined, or at least deflected elsewhere, so she had no new significant injuries. However, this time her detachment evaporated before the overpowering instinct to flee danger. Fear overwhelmed her rational mind only briefly, but it was long enough to propel her across the Rotunda to the safer ground of the Gallery at a staggering run in spite of the burning agony in her calf. Her wits only fully returned when she recognized the sound of Angela's voice yelling her name. She almost panicked again before she spotted Angela with Emily and her mother. They were a few rows back in the crowd which had reflexively shrunk back upon itself toward the Gallery and away from the danger at the front of the museum. Moans and cries were behind her and screams of terror were rising before her, but the crowd were so stunned by the double blasts that most were still rooted in place. A full panic had not set in yet, but it was about to…

The relief evident on Angela's face when she saw her abruptly gave way to naked fear as she pointed behind Brennan into the Rotunda.

Brennan turned and almost lost it again then and there. In crossing she had passed by others still on the floor with various injuries, whom she felt guilty for not helping, but giving her instincts free rein had saved her life – four terrorist gunmen had entered the building only seconds behind her and as she watched they began shooting down several of the adult walking wounded in their way. They advanced, spreading out across the Rotunda, two coming straight toward the Gallery and the others heading toward entrances to the east and west wings. Angela grabbed her arm and pulled her deeper into the crowd away from the approaching gunmen.

The crowd pancaked into the Gallery panicked and turned into an unruly, screaming mob. It was not an irrational response. The large proportion of children due to school field trips and vacationing families only made things worse. Another smaller explosion which she guessed must be a grenade at the far end of the Gallery sent the crowd surging madly in the opposite direction and they were carried helplessly along. But the human current gave them what appeared to be a lucky break.

Brennan pointed to a nearby fire exit and shouted to the others above the din, "The emergency exit! Go! Go!"

Angela shook off her shock and took her arm again to support her as the four of them tacked the few yards through the people to the door, making it at the same moment as several other people who'd had the presence of mind to spot it. A red headed man in his forties, the father of a family of five around him, was fumbling with the door, which had an "Alarm Will Sound On Opening" mechanism. The two older children were crying, hugging their mother, a brunette carrying an infant in a sling.

"Just open it!" Angela had to yell at him at point blank range to make herself heard over the screams, gunshots, and shouts of the terrorists which were unintelligible from their vantage point in the tumult.

"I'm trying!" He shouted back in frustration. "The fucking thing's jammed!" He backed up and kicked at the latch several times without success then began throwing himself at it shoulder first, cursing the whole while.

At the same moment Brennan realized it must have been sabotaged the sound of another grenade and a burst of automatic weapons fire at the other end of the gallery stopped the streaming crowd with an even greater volume of shouts and cries. The other two men must have entered the opposite ends of the Gallery where it curved around and joined the east and west wings. The several hundreds of people caught in the vise of the terrorists tried to reverse their course, only causing further pandemonium as families were pulled apart and people fell in the turmoil of the resulting panicked traffic jam.

As she and the other three backed away from the false hope of the jammed fire exit, the random motion of the jumbled crowd resolved itself into a renewed surge of movement in the opposite direction. They were swept even although they tried to retain control by hugging the wall. A sudden eddy of people searching for escape, a place to hide, or simply relief from the stampede pushed into the outer entrance of the restrooms outside the theater along the same wall they were on. Janice and Emily started to go in.

Brennan shouted at them, "No! No! It's a dead end!" There were no windows or other exits inside. Even though they were just a few feet ahead of her the mother and daughter did not hear her over the noise and were now almost lost from sight. She turned to Angela who had never let go of her arm, "Get them back!"

Angela eyed the madness in the common vestibule of the men's and women's restrooms and then nodded at her, her mouth set in a thin, line and shouted her reply.

"Get against the wall and stay put!"

She yelled back, "Ok!" as her friend let go of her arm and waded into the mass, elbows first, shouting Janice's and Emily's names.

Another eddy in the crowd briefly opened a more or less clear path to a spot along the wall a few yards on the other side of the restroom entrance, clear of the struggling knot, and Brennan hopped-ran for it. But her luck ran out as the gap suddenly closed on her mid-hop, catching her in another wild surge. She started to panic as the press of bodies closed on her and a sudden jerk to the right swept her from her one good leg. The packed torsos of those around her were all that kept her from falling, but her arms were mashed against her sides and she could barely breath much less put any volume into her shouts for Angela. Fortunately she was buffeted back and forth helplessly only for a little while. The Brownian motion had actually brought her closer to the relative safety of the wall she had originally aimed for when the pressure was suddenly relieved on one side. She almost fell but was just able to catch her balance and had pushed her way, half stumbling, nearly there, when a sudden shove from one side brought her up against a sobbing child against whom she couldn't brace herself.

Then she did fall.

The crowd closed again, packed tighter than ever, and began moving more quickly in one direction again above her. Down on the floor Brennan wrapped an arm around her head trying to protect herself as she crawled toward the wall. If she just gave into the instinct to curl into the foetal position she knew she might very well be trampled to death. She forced herself forward through the forest of legs, just managing to keep from getting kicked in the face, at least nothing more than getting a fat lip, but her ribs picked up several bruises, and at least one person tripped over her legs and fell on her. She kicked herself clear and finally made it to the wall where she realized she could just make out Angela calling her name. She was debating whether she should attempt to stand yet when someone stepped on her injured calf.

She screamed and passed out.

- - - - - - -

Brennan came to, roused by Angela and Janice trying to pull her to her feet by her arms. Emily was standing close trying to protect their tiny clear space with her body.

"Oh, thank God!" Angela looked like she was near tears, but she tried to smile. "Don't do that to me again, ok?"

Brennan nodded gratefully. The pain in her calf had subsided again to a throbbing ache and she tentatively put some of her weight back on it. _It would have to do…_ But she wasn't too proud to accept their support and they all held on to one another.

The crowd bulged in their direction again, pinning them against the wall then suddenly moved sideways again more coherently, and they had to go along with the flow to keep from getting knocked down or separated again. Now the press of bodies seemed somewhat less, but they could tell that the shouts and the occasional gunshots of the terrorists, at least the ones on this side of the Gallery, were getting closer. It was obvious they were being herded, but the only rational choice for the moment was to move along and maintain some space between their little group and the gunmen.

Brennan suddenly realized their destination – the crowd was being funneled into the entrance of the IMAX theater. Quarters were getting uncomfortably close again and they were helpless once more to do anything but let the current carry them inside.

For a second, only a second, she allowed herself to wish Booth would show up and make this nightmare end like he'd done with Kenton. She knew in her heart he would come for them no matter what, but she dismissed the unproductive thought. _Here_, for now, they were on their own… _Come on, you're tough…_

Once through the bottleneck of the dogleg entrance to the large, big screen theater, the human stream picked up speed as people began rushing down the steps. Fortunately the lights were on. There were already what appeared to be a few hundred people crammed into the lower half of the stadium seats and against one another on the steps further down, as well as in the broad aisle running across the theater directly in front of the giant screen.

The mass of people crushed further into the left and right corners by the screen where the fire exits were located. Apparently these had been sabotaged too, just as she had dreaded, but those continuing to pack into the theater didn't realize it yet. Another round of panic was going to get ugly very quickly in the crowded space.

Having been trampled once and seeing the false refuge of the bottom of the theater for what it was, Brennan made the others move directly across into one of the long rows in the section that was still relatively clear where they had entered near the top. With her leg the way it was it would be difficult to get down anyway, and any return trip back up would be an even greater struggle.

_Think!_ She forced herself to resist the impulse to rest her leg by sitting. When Booth was off at his training course they had discussed some of the recent large scale hostage situations overseas in one of their late night phone chats. She looked around with a feeling of dread. The theater was going to be a deathtrap. With most of the Islamic terrorists, their actual demands were not really the point, the terror was. If they stayed they would probably die… and worse things might happen before that point. _Now or never._ She got the others' attention.

"We HAVE to try to get out of here!"

Angela and the others followed her lead and began moving across the row to the aisle leading to the theater exit, at the top a the same level as the entrance, but their way was blocked.

A gray haired man in his 60s was sitting hunkered down with six shell-shocked boys and girls in blue, white and plaid school uniforms who were all desperately holding on to each other. To Brennan's untrained eye they looked like second or third graders. He held another little girl in his lap who was crying and clutching his neck fiercely, and he was saying the 'Our Father' with his eyes closed.

Brennan interrupted him with an irritated shout, "GET UP!" _There's no time for that crap._

His eyes opened with a start. He looked like he wasn't doing much better than the kids. He focused on her and said shakily, "I don't know where the rest of the class is. I'm just a chaperone…"

The little girl shifted and Brennan could read a name tag. _Bob Reynolds, Fairfax Christian School._

"Mister Reynolds, you have to take care of the ones you've got. We have to move NOW! This place is a trap!"

Something in her expression seemed to get through to him. He nodded and collected himself. He started to push the girl off his lap but she squealed and resisted.

"Let go of Grandpa, honey. I have to get up. I'll pick you back up, I promise."

She slid off his lap reluctantly. He rose this time and ushered the kids out to the aisle, and he picked the little girl up again, waving Brennan and the other women out. Janice and Emily helped take charge of the children and Angela helped Brennan up the steps past the last few rows of seats.

"Come with us," she told Reynolds.

Brennan hobbled ahead and opened the thankfully still working theater exit doors as Angela and the others helped shepherd the kids. She shouted to the much larger mass of people in the rows and aisles farther down, "It's a trap! This way!" Then she stepped through and held the door open, urging on the chaperone who was still carrying his granddaughter. He squeezed by shooing another boy and girl ahead of him, and she moved to catch up with him once Emily took over holding the door for the others. Brennan was moving at a stiff-legged trot with most of the rest of the group right behind her when she rounded the corner of the short dog-leg passage that served to keep light from entering the opened exit doors just in time to hear screams from the children ahead of her.

Eyes wide, the terrorist who came into view right in front of them shouted, "Back! BACK!" in accented but perfectly understandable English. He dropped the chain that he had been about to use to secure the exit doors, and he ignored the boy and girl as he smoothly raised his slung AK. Time seemed to slow for Brennan as her momentum carried her inexorably closer while she watched the gun barrel rise and his finger tighten on the trigger. At this close range he could not possibly miss. The shots sounded like explosions in the confined space…

------------

_14th Street near Constitution Avenue…_

"Shit!"

Booth grabbed the mike of the radio but was momentarily frozen in disbelief, watching as man after armed man bailed out of the windowless utility van like it was some kind of god damned terrorist clown car.

He recovered from his shock and transmitted, "Booth here. I had to take out the spotter – turns out he had a rifle and spotted me. But we've got a bigger problem. A Jeffersonian-marked full sized van pulled up and armed men are getting out…" He let go of the rifle's pistol grip and raised the binoculars for a better look, "… make that five, six, seven, eight, no **_nine_** hostiles." _Jesus fucking Christ!_ It was a target rich environment but also that sniper's worst nightmare. "… looks like a mix of AKs and some M-16 variant, grenades, some are wearing bomb vests as well. Some Middle Eastern or possibly Pakistani in appearance, others more or less 'white'. None have their faces are covered. All are wearing black headbands." Black was the color of the banner of _jihad_.

"Got it. Keep going. We're feeding this to all units in transit," came the response when he paused.

Fortunately his location gave him a slightly oblique view of the opened rear of the van and he had a front row seat allowing him to keep up a running report as they deployed. Two men with AKs immediately spread out on the sidewalk looking outward, pulling security, one nearer the van and the other about twenty-five yards down the sidewalk. The brazen sonsabitches acted like they had all the time in the world, and why not, it had not been five minutes since the first bomb, and the open Mall gave them a clear view of any approaching response. Ominously, five others began unloading backpacks and duffle after duffle full of heavy gear, obviously ready for a siege. The cocksuckers were coming to stay. The last man immediately loped up the steps to the museum's portico and went to one knee in the shade of one of the fat pillars, scanning the area as he pulled out a radio, a long rifle at the ready.

Booth set aside the binoculars and got a closer look through the rifle scope. The news got worse, much worse. Upon closer inspection he saw that the shooter on the portico sported a wicked looking Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, and he'd already folded down the legs of the built-in bipod. The guy he'd already shot was an amateur, the JV, and this bastard, still fiddling with the radio though keeping an eye out, was the varsity. He had the cold look of a predator, one that Booth recognized instantly because he used to see it in the mirror years ago. He kept up the running commentary on the radio. Worse, when Booth looked at the men still carefully handing down bags he got a good view of some of the contents: spools of wire, paint bucket IEDs, antipersonnel and even anti_tank_ mines, and what appeared to be one shitload of explosives in general. He even saw what must be half a dozen sticks for an RPG launcher. There was so much shit the terrorists had to have ridden packed like cordwood atop their gear.

Booth thought of the massacre at the booby-trapped school gym in Beslan where almost four hundred had died – more than half of them children, and the takeover of the Moscow movie theater, both by Islamist Chechens eager to die and take innocents with them. He had a horrible flash of insight… _God dammit, so that's the plan…_

He keyed the radio again, and spoke a rush, "They're seizing the IMAX theater and they have a ton of explosives to blow it straight to hell if we try a rescue. It's just like Beslan. They're here on a one-way ticket!"

He'd gladly help them achieve martyrdom, but he had to act _right now_.

"Request permission to engage." Sure of the answer Booth dropped the mike and put both hands on the rifle, flipping the safety off again. He tracked the likely first target -- one guy with an AK and a smaller backpack had trotted to the base of the broad steps and started up, apparently to link up with and reinforce the first group already inside. The others down by the van started to load each other up more heavily with the rest of the gear. He put his finger on the trigger and gave a slight squeeze to draw up the slack in the mechanism.

Booth was utterly shocked by the strange voice that commended in reply on the radio.

"Negative! Do NOT engage, repeat do not engage!"

_WHAT THE FUCK?_

The armed backpacker was nearing the top of the steps…

- - - - - -

_Jeffersonian IMAX Theater …_

The chaperone barely a pace ahead and to the right of Brennan caught both rounds from the AK squarely in the face, only missing the little girl on his shoulder by inches. For half a second the resulting horror struck Brennan as strangely surreal as the man, no, surely the _corpse_ by now with that much of his cranium and left parietal lobe missing, slumped toward the floor, arms still loosely around his granddaughter who had not yet even mustered a scream. Brennan distantly noted the hot wet spatters on her own face and neck, now only having eyes for the terrorist who raised the AK one-handed and fired two more warning shots into the ceiling to turn back the would-be hostages as he opened his mouth to shout…

One coherent thought managed to form in her mind, _I will not be a victim._ She continued her forward motion, speeding up rather than slowing down, fueled by her accumulated outrage which finally had a target. Flight turned into _fight._

Her sensei would be proud. She felt an odd sense of detachment, as if she were merely a spectator clinically observing as her body seemed to act by reflex, her years of training paying off. She couldn't count on her injured leg for any kicks so her attack had to be all upper body. She moved through the _kata _alternating left and right moves in rapid succession…

… _jodan uke … shotei ate … age hiji ate … shuto uchi…_

… a left rising block to stop the descending rifle as the terrorist realized his mistake in underestimating the woman before him and with this move she simultaneously wound up for the next…

… a palm-heel smash with her right hand to the solar plexus 5cm below the xiphloid process of the sternum to stun the buried nerve ganglia responsible for respiration, drawing back her left arm again as she stepped forward into him as he stumbled back against the wall of the passage…

… a rising left elbow to the sternum around the third or fourth rib, which she definitely felt dislocate, an excruciating injury that made him drop the rifle…

…and the only way to she had to disable him for sure given her lesser female upper body strength, a move she had never been able to practice at full power with a live partner_… shuto uchi,_ a 'knife hand' strike to his throat with her right, which crushed his trachea against the cervical vertebrae around C7.

The gunman dropped at her feet convulsing, eyes bulging as he grabbed at his throat in futility. But he was already fading. Heart pounding and panting from the sudden adrenaline-powered exertion, Brennan just managed to prop herself against the wall before she nearly fell on top of him, her injured calf a burning agony. During her attack she had felt a distinct tearing sensation as the tensing muscle cut must have itself further against the embedded shrapnel, and now she could feel hot blood freely dripping down her leg.

Emily caught her arm and kept her from falling, her eyes wide. Brennan could just make out her words over the little girl crying hysterically over her grandfather's body…

"Holy shit!"

**A/N**

**As always, your reviews are greatly appreciated. Again, longer ones for longer chapters even more so :)**

**Regardless, please let me know if you are still out there reading. Thanks.**


	22. Ruthless

_14th Street near Constitution Avenue…_

"_Negative! Do NOT engage, repeat do not engage!" _

The authoritative voice on Booth's radio continued, "Follow protocol and wait for the DC Office regional SWAT due in five minutes to set up a perimeter. The terrorists already inside surely have hostages by now. Let the situation stabilize while we wait for their demands, talk the talk, and properly prep an assault by HRT for when the time is right. They're boarding choppers at Quantico shortly. Do NOT escalate! Stick to protocol. Acknowledge!"

_Same old shit_… cordon off the area, watch and wait for negotiations, be methodical, take no risks, don't move until everything is perfect as can be… in other words protect the cops, make every effort to spare the _shooter_, but in doing so risk forgetting about the victims… ok for cornered bank robbers or distraught ex-husbands but hopelessly wrong for those who had killed already and _wanted_ to die.

He couldn't fucking believe his ears, and his anger showed in his voice. "Disagree! Once they get set up inside any rescue's going to be a _slaughter! _Please let me engage!" He was losing his temper waiting for an answer. The channel was silent but for static.

He still couldn't place the voice and impatience got the better of him…

"Cullen, talk some sense into this idiot! We've got a chance to prevent a Beslan, and he wants to fuck it up like Columbine!" At that school several students had died because SWAT didn't know when to throw out the playbook and were too cautious.

The backpack-wearing shooter stopped near the sniper and they talked for a moment.

The strange voice over the radio replied, equally furious, "This is Deputy Director Gregory, your _boss_ for today, Agent Booth. Observe and report only!"

_Fuck._ Gregory was the head of the Critical Incident Response Group, the man in the chain of command _over_ the head of HRT. _Burned that fucking bridge._ Worse, he'd never been an operator himself, just an ordinary agent then a ladder climbing bureaucrat with a rep as a pig-headed SOB. And Booth had already pissed him off. What little SWAT related experience he had was on the ordinary law enforcement side and not counter-terror. Gregory was an administrator who had no business in the hotseat. And, worse, Cullen, DD over Criminal Investigations, had no authority whatsoever over him. The two were peers.

But he _had_ to try one more time -- he couldn't let them piss away this once in a lifetime chance to nip this shit in the bud from his front row seat. If he just got the go order it would be a fucking shooting gallery…

"Where's Assistant Director Fleming? Get him on the line." The head of HRT was a former operator. _He_ was supposed to be in the hotseat in a crisis, not this fucking chair warmer who was in over his head.

Booth was struggling with figuring out just how to convince the man and simultaneously trying to control his rising agitation which was now verging on panic as he eyed the backpacker just yards from the entrance, when Gregory answered icily.

"Fleming is on a commercial flight en route to Japan. He's somewhere over the Pacific. He's still out of the loop until the FAA can get a message routed to the pilot. I have assumed command."

_Shit._ Of course he would never consider allowing command to devolve to a lower rung where someone knew what the hell was going on and just being satisfied with oversight.

Gregory continued, this time a little more coolly.

"Director Cullen has persuaded me to take your suggestion under advisement. I'll consult with SAC Pulaski when he has comms again once the HRT choppers are in the air… that should be in just a few more minutes. Again take NO action. Acknowledge."

Booth was incredulous. The man wanted to wait to have a fucking committee meeting? The Special Agent in Charge who was one of the HRT team field commanders had his head screwed on straight, but Booth's window for action was rapidly closing. _There's no more goddamned time!_

He was at a loss for words when he watched helplessly as the backpacker suddenly left the sniper and darted into the building. Then he wasn't…

This time it was out loud… "_FUCK!_"

Worse, down by the van two more looked like they were loaded up and about to move out. It was the last straw.

They weren't going to get past him, not again, not this time. _No way. No fucking way…_ The people inside were counting on him… and he owed them. He remembered Bones' "I hope it never goes up, unless it needs to." Damn but if his body count wasn't going to keep rising today.

There wasn't any more time to argue. He made his decision and keyed the radio…

"Negative. As agent on scene I perceive an imminent danger. I _am_ engaging the targets."

"What the hell do you mean 'negative'? Agent Booth, stand down, goddammit! You are ORDERED..."

Booth locked down the 'send' button, cutting him off, and thanked God he wasn't stuck with a slow bolt-action rifle…

…but he froze briefly, unable to decide whom to shoot first, the immediate threat of those closest to the entrance or the greater long term threat of the explosives? _Shit, there's too many!_ But he took one deep breath and made himself suck it up – this was no time for buck fever. Sometimes being decisive was more important than being perfect… he decided to literally start at the top near the doors and work his way down to the sidewalk. _One thing first…_ He removed the partially used mag and slapped in a full one, which gave him a total of twenty-one rounds including the one already auto-loaded into the chamber after his last shot at the guy in the window. Once he kicked over the ant hill with his first shot he didn't want to have to stop to reload.

He described his actions for the still transmitting radio, "…taking out the new sniper…"

The sniper, still on one knee, had backed further into the shadows of the big column which meant the dark crosshairs contrasted poorly with the target. With his left hand Booth flipped on the reticle illumination switch on the side of the big scope. Now the crosshairs glowed softly white, and he easily placed them right on the ear of the sniper who'd turned his head to the side as he spoke into his radio. _Time for a cochlear implant, you piece of shit._ After another quick glance at the positions of the other terrorists, Booth took a breath and let it part way out, then softly squeezed the trigger.

_BLAM! _

He ignored the new cries and shouts from the crowd up the street behind him, and he used up a precious fraction of a second to check his work as the echoes trailed away_. Perfect._

"Runners," he reported for the benefit of the radio as he flicked the reticle illumination off and found his next targets about where he expected. The first two loaded down men had already started up the steps, and well away from any cover they had no choice but to run for the safety of the entrance under the portico. Now running as fast as they could burdened by backpacks, rifles and duffles, he was still going to fuck 'em -- hard.

With multiple targets moving there was no more time for tidy headshots that might miss anyway, no time for the finesse of 'one shot, one kill'. _Speed over accuracy…_

_BLAM-BLAM!_

He'd fired two rounds at the first runner's center-of-mass, leading only a little for his ascent. Two thirds of the way up the steps, they took him in the back just below the shoulder blades near the top of the pack. Booth didn't waste time watching as, pulled off balance by the heavy duffle, the man spun and fell, and rolled back down a few steps, arms flopping. Instead he immediately shifted to give the same treatment to the other runner just a few steps below and to the left, but he received a shock as he fired...

_BLAM-BLA… _BOOM!

The second runner exploded like a fucking video game. A hit from a round must've set off his explosives… _unstable cheap shit… _at least it hadn't set off whatever was in the duffle bags too.

"They may be using TATP," he radioed. The terrorists called it 'Mother of Satan' for being so treacherous. He shifted his aim down to the street level where the other targets still clustered near the rear of the van. Not knowing where the shots were coming from they'd instinctively hunkered down for a second just like he'd hoped, and then, closer as they were to the new blast, the unexpected explosive martyrdom of their comrade startled them further. It was the first real stroke of good luck for Booth, but fatal for them.

One was obviously wearing a bomb vest. Booth took the time for a headshot to avoid a repeat.

_BLAM!_

The bomber fell back across the assembled duffles.

…then fast center of mass double taps for the other two...

_BLAM-BLAM! BLAM-BLAM!_

"Van guys are down." They were in a heap around the pile of their gear.

_Crack-Pow!_

Booth instinctively ducked his head at the sound of the shockwave of a still supersonic round passing nearby followed by the muzzle blast which had to catch up. Some SOB was shooting back at _him_ now, but he was certain the only one with a decent rifle was down. Then he had to ignore the incoming fire anway because when he looked back toward the van through the scope looking for the terrorist who'd been pulling security in front, he was not where Booth expected.

Booth's left eye, the one not peering through the scope, caught him, and he shifted his aim to the left to get him back in the scope's field of view. Apparently seeing his comrades getting whacked one after the other was too much for the man and he'd bolted. Instead of getting bogged down climbing the museum steps he chose to sprint eastward straight down the sidewalk, a better choice, but not by much.

Encumbered only by his rifle, the other man was pretty fast so Booth had to lead the target. He tracked his movement for a second then aimed at a point in space about a yard ahead of the running man's torso to account for the bullets' half second travel time.

_BLAM-BLAM!_

The two rounds missed. _Shit._ He'd hoped squeezing off two would bracket him. Although the fleeing terrorist flinched, his legs and arms kept furiously pumping without missing a beat. Although he was heading _away_ from the museum, armed as he was, Booth couldn't risk him reaching the unprotected evacuees outside or the adjacent buildings.

Booth tracked him another second and found the imaginary point in space out front where he believed the locations of flesh and full metal jacketed lead would coincide…

_BLAM-BLAM!_

This time both rounds impacted the rib cage just below the armpit as the left arm had swung forward and cleared. Heart and lungs destroyed, he spun sideways as he fell but his forward momentum still made him hit the pavement face first at full speed. _That's gotta hurt._

Finally, Booth acquired the one man in view still on his feet, the other security gunner who'd been farther out to the _right_ of the van, now at thirty yards. This one was made of sterner stuff. So _he_ was the shooter. He was down on one knee and had his AK carefully braced, still firing at Booth.

_THUNK! _

That round struck the fender of Booth's SUV.

The next round ricocheted off the pavement a few yards away from the vehicle. However it was too little, too late. It was actually pretty good shooting given the distance, much better than the usual 'spray and pray' which usually passed for Third World marksmanship. But, this terrorist was a dead man and just didn't know it yet – he was well beyond his weapon's effective range. Booth didn't even budge when another round went snapping by as he aimed…

_BLAM!_

The other man simply collapsed sideways, the right half of his head gone.

No one was left standing.

A later review would determine that only seventeen seconds had elapsed since his first shot took out the sniper on the steps.

"All targets are down."

- - - - - - - -

_Jeffersonian IMAX Theater Exit …_

Brennan shook off Emily's arm. She'd finally caught her breath and could support herself now, more or less. The bleeding of the aggravated shrapnel wound on her calf seemed to have slowed down a bit as well.

"Please help your mother, Emily. Thanks."

The girl nodded and helped her mother take charge of the school kids now that Mister Reynolds was dead. Janice had picked up the granddaughter and was trying to comfort her and hush her crying.

Brennan looked down at the terrorist. He was totally motionless and cyanotic, his bloody foam flecked lips turning bluish purple with the lack of oxygen. His eyes were open in an unblinking stare, pupils dilated. He would be dead any second if he wasn't already.

She didn't bother to check his pulse.

With a hand on the wall for support, Brennan limped to the corner of the short stub of hallway and carefully peeked out. Further off to the right there was still a knot of people funneling into the IMAX entrance but no terrorists were in direct view from her vantage e point, but she could still hear some threats and orders shouted in what sounded like English although she couldn't quite make them out.

She then looked to the left where the Gallery curved around to meet the west wing. The exit was far around she could almost see through the opening to the other opening between the wing and the Rotunda. Another terrorist, this one wearing a bandolier of grenades instead of a bomb vest, was firing a few shots into the wreckage of the Security office. She couldn't quite see, but she was afraid he must be finishing off wounded guards. After the last shot he looked around briefly then turned his back to them again. Apparently there was enough noise none of the terrorists had yet realized anything was amiss at the theater exit.

This might be their one shot at getting out.

She turned back and motioned Angela over as she returned to the fallen terrorist.

"What do you need?" Angela sensibly kept her voice low.

"Just keep me from falling over and help me back up."

It would have been easier to just ask Angela to do it, but her friend had much less experience with fresh bodies and she knew what she was looking for anyway. That wasn't to say she didn't prefer nice clean dry skeletons herself.

As she held on to Angela with one arm and carefully bent down, favoring her leg, to fish in the pouches of the man's vest. _Ignore the eyes._ At the same time she tried to remember _exactly_ what she'd paid one of the camp guards in Guatemala to show her once. Her fingers felt metal. _Got it._

"Help me up." Angela pulled her up and Brennan got the hurt leg back beneath her.

The children were almost quiet now, whether all cried out or in shock she didn't care at the moment. She noticed Emily opening one of the doors back into the theater. The girl called to someone inside, "It's ok, come on!" and beckoned with a wave.

Wisely, no one else had followed them out when they had heard the shots and cries.

"Hold this." Brennan gave her prize to Angela then clutched her friend's arm for support as she moved a step then carefully bent down again and stretched out her arm to reach for the dropped assault rifle a couple feet from the body.

She should have anticipated what happened next, but she didn't.

She had just touched the smooth wood of the stock when the pent up crowd surged through the inner exit doors. Angela yanked her up and away in time to keep her from getting bowled over, but she also lost her grip on the AK. As more people jammed into the passageway and forced them back by sheer mass, the rifle disappeared from view underfoot. In spite of her shouts Brennan could not make any headway. Without the rifle, the full magazine she'd retrieved was useless. But then a different problem arose…

_Dammit._ She tried, she really did, but without two sturdy legs under her Brennan was unable to withstand the tide, and they were pushed back further, past the corner of the short hallway...

…out into the open Gallery where they were now totally exposed.

She turned around and her heart was in her throat…

The gunman whom she'd just spied upon did see them this time, and he began trotting in their direction shouting something in what she assumed was Arabic. Then in heavily accented English, "Back inside! Now!"

A young man charged out of the passage past Brennan only to be shot down not thirty feet in front of them. Angela tried to pull her back into the cover of the exit, but the tightly packed people who had followed them out formed an impassable barrier, blocked themselves by those who were still exiting the theater proper behind _them_.

"Let us in!" Angela cried out and tried to push her way in but failed. They turned around again in fear as the shooter approached. He paused and fired a couple of shots at the wall just a few feet from their heads as a signal to go back inside, which needed no translation. But it was no use -- they couldn't move. Brennan tried to steel herself, expecting the next rounds would be aimed at them, but she was more horrified to instead see the man stop and grin as he snatched a grenade from the bandolier across his chest. She froze, unable to tear her eyes away as he grabbed the ring with his other hand to pull out the pin to arm the grenade which he was clearly about to throw in their midst…

_BLAM! _

The terrorist staggered and began hemorrhaging from his right shoulder, a look of stunned surprise on his face. His grip loosened, and he dropped the grenade at his feet.

…minus the pin which dangled from the fingers of his left hand.

_BLAM! …_another gunshot and a red crater appeared where his left eye had been.

He fell forward to the floor next to the grenade, the smaller entry wound in the back of his skull invisible from this distance.

"Get down!" a male voice shouted, and Brennan let her legs collapse, pulling Angela down with her. She swore she could hear the grenade's fuze sizzling.

BANG!

She could _feel_ the overpressure of the blast on her face and heard whistling shrapnel hitting the walls followed by a female sounding scream from behind them as someone in the passageway was hit.

Brennan made herself ignore the injured woman as Angela pulled her back up. Mercifully none of their group was hurt. Instead she looked back out into the Gallery. About forty feet away the body of the terrorist had been ripped apart like a particularly large and gory roadkill.

Doubly stunned by their unexpected reprieve, Brennan looked away from the corpse to see their savior. It was one of the newer security guards who'd been on duty in the Lab this morning, holding his Glock in both hands. She tried to remember his name. _Donald? no…_ Substantially stouter than most of the guards, he was panting, red-faced and sweaty – he must have run all the way from the annex housing their lab.

He beckoned to them from just inside the end of the Gallery, "Come on! Hurry!"

Brennan and Angela immediately began moving, and Janice and Emily followed their lead with the school kids, but some of the people behind them must have hesitated.

He waved again and shouted, "MOVE IT! This…"

_BR-R-R-RAP!_

Multiple splotches of crimson blossomed across the stark white of his uniform shirt, and he dropped backwards, dead without ever having a chance to react.

They were several yards away from the safety of the exit, their former brief refuge, well out into the middle of the Gallery with absolutely no cover when the guard's killer came into view. He'd apparently crossed into the Gallery from the Rotunda via the west wing and had blindsided him.

He ran forward and kicked the guard's body over with his foot to make sure he was dead, then he grimaced when he looked over to see the terrorist who'd been shot down and blown up by his own grenade. Only then did he look up and see the ragtag group emerging from the theater.

Brennan had another shock as it seemed he was looking directly at her, his dark eyes cold and lifeless. Then she noticed he was wearing a backpack. This man was _not_ one of the original terrorists who'd entered the Rotunda behind her, but apparently part of a second wave. She was ready to give into despair when another large explosion went off, one that sounded different somehow, followed by a popping sound. The man gave a start, his eyes widening in alarm. She had another surprise when he shouted a loud curse, "FUCK!" – in apparently _un_accented English – and then, without a backwards glance, turned around and ran back out of sight in the direction from which he had appeared.

It took her a second to shrug off the repeated shocks and realize that the explosion must have been _outside_. She shut off her curiosity – their escape required her full attention.

Any second the backpacker might return …or the terrorists at the other end of the Gallery overseeing the larger crowd still being funneled into the theater might notice them. The fact they were still occasionally firing into the air was probably all that had let them get this far undetected.

She turned around to the people who had come up short behind them again, and pointed back toward the west wing...

"This is our only chance! RUN!"

They didn't need to hear it a second time. They ran and scattered.

But Brennan took a deep breath and went the opposite direction…

- - - - - - - -

_14th Street near Constitution Avenue…_

Booth made a follow up pass with the scope to assess the damage he'd done to the earlier targets.

The sniper in the shade of the column was very, very definitely dead.

The first runner lay motionless, his blood already forming a small pool.

Of the second runner nothing remained but his feet and a scorch mark on the steps.

At the back of the van two of the men appeared to be down for the count – he had a pretty clear view of their wounds.****One was the bomber he'd headshot.****But as Booth gave the second one a closer look he detected movement out of the corner of his eye.

The third man, mostly hidden by a large duffle, was lying with his head down and eyes closed and was stealthily rummaging through the opening of the bag with his right arm. He _was_ clearly wounded and might be reaching for a bandage.

Or a radio.

Or he might be hunting for a detonator.

_God dammit._

Booth couldn't wait to see whether or not he set off the explosives surrounding him, which looked like enough shit to severely damage the front of the building and hurt even more people inside.

_God, forgive me… _

Booth put the cross hairs on the man's head and squeezed off a round.

_BLAM!_

The man was no longer a threat, if the large, pink, concave chunk of skull dangling by a flap of scalp and the exposed void were any indication.

Booth lifted his head away from the rifle scope. _Oh God…_ With the naked eye he'd detected some _more_ movement. He bent his head back down to the scope and reacquired the first runner near the top of the steps amidst the bodies of two innocents taken out by the original bomber. _Stay down motherfucker, don't make me…_ Determined, the wounded terrorist had somehow staggered to his feet, his blood soaked right arm and shoulder dangling uselessly, and he started to continue slowly upward. Booth carefully lined up the crosshairs on the base of his skull. He carefully timed its relative bobbing motion as the other man struggled up the steps...

_BLAM!_

The man, essentially headless, pitched forward up the slope of the steps and fell for the last time.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

That horrible job taken care of, he counted bodies. Briefly distracted by the roar of a TV news chopper passing relatively low overhead before resuming his task, he missed the police cruiser that pulled up beside his SUV.

_All accounted for._ But Booth eyed the windowless van…

Between all the bad guys headed for room temperature and their gear out on the sidewalk Booth was fairly certain that the van itself was not rigged as one giant bomb… there just couldn't have been any more space inside. But there might have been space for one more man to help unload. It was a damned shame he didn't have x-ray vision…

He swapped out the nearly empty magazine for another full one and immediately fired four rounds into the driver compartment, which he couldn't quite fully see into because of his reverse angle. Then he methodically walked more rounds into the thin-skinned van in a zigzag pattern beginning jut behind the driver door and moving to the rear – just above floor level and at three feet up. He was careful to stay above the gas tank. When he reached the back doors he was rewarded with an arm flopping down out the rear of the van. _Gotcha._

"Got another one hiding in the van," he reported.

But the opened door blocked any better view. On second thought… the terrorist could be completely unwounded, or only lightly wounded, and just playing possum before causing more mischief. Again there was no good way to know. He grimaced. There was no point in half measures now; he couldn't risk leaving anyone behind him who was a threat. The stakes were simply too damned high.

He aimed at the rear quarter panel of the van just above floor level and a foot back from the doors, where the torso should be. _God fucking dammit. _He shook his head. It was an execution pure and simple.He paused and collected himself. Four rounds spread over a foot or so should be enough … _fuck, fuck, fuck_… he put his finger on the trigger but he was still torn…

"You the FBI guy? Whatcha need me to do?"

Booth moved his finger out of the trigger guard and looked back down to his right at the source of the interrupting voice. Somehow he'd missed the arrival of a DC PD Crown Vic patrol car.

He nodded grimly to the DC cop who'd opening his trunk and was pulling out a weapon.

"Yeah." He ID'ed himself, "Special Agent Seeley Booth."

Looking further afield around the Mall Booth could see more police and emergency vehicles setting up an outer perimeter and starting to handle the refugees from the Jeffersonian. But still no sign of Bureau SWAT just yet, much less HRT who had to be much further out. The air was filled with sound of more than one chopper circling the area.

Booth glanced through his scope at the arm still dangling from the back of the van then back to the cop, a black kid who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He was looking at Booth expectantly and held a scoped bolt action Remington 700 sniper rifle in his hands.

_Thank God._ "Just a second." Booth bent to the scope one last time.

For good measure he put three rounds through the fender into the engine compartment although the .308s would only do limited damage, and he shot out the two visible tires as well to disable the vehicle, although it almost seemed like overkill by that point.

He laid the rifle down as the last overlapping echoes faded away and surveyed the results of his handiwork on the front steps once more with the binoculars. He grimaced and put them down.

"The van is disabled," he announced for the benefit of the radio.

God help him, but he was totally committed now. And the job wasn't finished, not quite.

But there was no time for second guessing himself -- it looked like he had his relief in the form of the police sniper.

He pointed to the younger man's rifle. "You any good with that?"

The cop stuck out his chin defiantly, "Two tours in Afghanistan with the 10th Mountain Division." He said it as if that simple fact was enough. It was.

Booth nodded to himself. The kid would do. He pointed to the sidewalk in front of the museum…

"There's a pile of explosives behind the van that _cannot_ be allowed to get inside that building. Or even set off where they are. Anyone so much as farts near it…" He made sure he caught the other man's eye, "…take 'em out." It was crystal clear from the context that 'take out' meant _kill_. The other man nodded.

He added, "There's one down in the rear of the van who could still cause trouble. Make sure you keep an eye on him. There are at least four terrorists already inside. If you have a target of opportunity, take it."

"Got it," the cop replied then rested his rifle across the hood of Booth's SUV and began watching through his scope.

Farther to the east on Jefferson, the street directly in front of the museums on the south side of the Mall, Booth could finally see the first big dark blue SWAT panel truck pulling up and stopping in front of the Smithsonian, the next museum down. _'Bout fucking time._ He couldn't make out whether it was DC PD or FBI. Looking around more, flashing lights, both blue and red, showed that more police cars and emergency vehicles were working on the much all important outer perimeter. He even saw a couple of black SUVs that had that government-issue look, but none were near his position yet. For the moment he still appeared to be the closest to the Jeffersonian.

Booth eyed the front of the museum again. Between the downed terrorists, the doomed Good Samaritan, and victims of the original blast, some of whom just might still be alive, he counted fourteen bodies in view.

And only God knew how many more inside.

People whom he should have been able to protect.

_He_ was the one who'd failed to stop the first group after the original bomber. And who'd let another one of the bastards in while dicking around with that idiot Gregory.

Now it was time to see it through to the end…

He laid the extra mags, binoculars, and the rifle near the edge of the roof and tucked the radio in a jacket pocket before swinging his legs over the side and dropping to the pavement. He turned around, grabbed the gear from the roof of the SUV, and went around back to the open liftgate where he set it inside.

He pulled the radio out of his pocket and set it on the bumper before removing his suit jacket which he balled up and threw forward over the back seat. The back of his white dress shirt was soaked. He unknotted and pulled the silk tie out of his shirt collar and dropped it. Surely it was ruined, soggy and wrinkled as it was.

He raised his arms, grasped the top of the opening, and leaned forward against the vehicle hanging his head down, allowing himself to enjoy the cooling effect of the slight breeze which had sprung up from the north.

…but only for a few seconds.

He looked down at the rest of his gear still in the big locker.

He was already in some kind of trouble…

At this point he didn't give much of a shit.

He let go of the edge of the roof, straightened up, and took off the shoulder holster which he set down inside.

_Come hell or high water…_

He grasped the mike of his still transmitting radio.

"I'm going in. Over."

He dropped the mike and picked up the black body armor.

**A/N**

**As always, your reviews are _greatly_ appreciated. **


	23. Reentry

**A/N**

**A note on the plausibility of Booth racking up all those kills in the last chapter… I read a news story on Yahoo! a few weeks ago about an Army sniper in Iraq who recently got 5 headshots in 8 seconds on a group of six insurgents on a rooftop… at a range of 400m, similar to where I have Booth. The other one got away only because he jumped off the top of three-storey building in sheer desperation. No word on the landing.**

**This chapter is a shorter one. The followup will be soon.**

_The Mall, 14t St. near Constitution Ave._

Booth cracked the heavy vest, ripping open the Velcro closures down the side before unlocking the Send key of his radio. He braced himself for an ass-chewing response as he put his right arm through the body armor…

"TELL ME WHY I SHOULDN'T HAVE YOUR ASS ARRESTED!"

_Because trying to save people isn't a crime?_ But Booth gave no answer out loud, no point throwing fuel on the fire after all, and instead finished shrugging on the black vest.

He snugged the vest to fit properly, re-closing the Velcro straps as Gregory continued at only slightly lower volume, "You had _better_ hope to hell you were right with your little stunt. We caught the last part of it on the live feed from the channel 5 chopper on Fox News. God help you, Agent Booth, any innocent lives lost as a result of your insubordination are on your head!"

_Don't I know it. _Booth glanced at the sky and saw that there were five helicopters he could see at various altitudes – a couple from the local TV stations, DC PD, one that looked like it might be Bureau, and an Army Blackhawk in the distance Finished with the vest, he grabbed the hard shelled kneepads and put them on right over the trousers of his suit. There wasn't time to change.

His CYA disavowal now stated for the record, apparently Gregory wasn't too stupid after all to realize that what was done was done – for the moment at least. But he wasn't quite through with Booth yet…

"And just what the hell do you mean 'I'm going in'? You are to wait for the team. Better yet, you're sitting this one out. You've done enough damage already."

Booth straightened back up – he had to respond to this. _Nicely_. He gritted his teeth as he keyed the mike.

"Sir, request permission to infiltrate the Museum, flanking them via the Medico-Legal Lab. I'm familiar with the layout of the complex," which was _mostly_ true, "and can recon from the inside while the main team is still pulling up blueprints and prepping. I think it's more important for someone to get inside and close quickly while the terrorists are still off balance." _And take some more out if I get the chance…_

Booth let go of the button, and reached into the locker for the tactical holster. The radio was silent for what seemed like an eternity. As he strapped the belt around his waist beneath the vest he asked himself if he really was prepared to go totally rogue if Gregory's head was too far up his ass…

"Agent Booth... Director Cullen has persuaded me to let you go in."

Booth imagined he could hear the enamel of the other man's teeth splintering. "Thank you, sir."

"But hear this… if you Rambo this and fuck it up but somehow manage to survive, I swear to God I'll shoot you myself!" The director took a breath. "Keep reporting. Gregory out."

Booth took a breath himself. _Now to deliver._ He had to move fast, but there was no room for mistakes.

He hooked the strap which held the bottom of the low slung holster to his thigh. Wyatt Earp would have instantly recognized the high tech gunslinger rig. He picked up the Sig-Sauer automatic, made sure the safety was engaged, and racked the slide to chamber the first round before dropping it into the holster and securing it with the elastic band attached for the purpose. The belt was already equipped with a holder for two mags, which he inserted.

Next he filled the ammo pouch for extra MP5 mags and hung that at his hip. Then he picked up the MP5 submachine gun itself. Holding it by the pistol grip with his right hand, he yanked back the cocking lever with his left, flipping it up at the end stop to hold the bolt open. He grabbed a loaded thirty round magazine and took a second to inspect it where the cartridges were exposed to satisfy himself none of the sheet metal tabs were bent, a major cause of misfeeds in the field. _Ok…_ He made sure the fire selector switch was on 'Safe', inserted the mag, and slapped the spring-loaded cocking lever free with the heel of his left hand. The gun jerked as the bolt closed, chambering the first 10mm round. _No fucking flash bangs…_ But there was nothing to be done about that.

Booth placed the shooting goggles around his neck, and put the radio in the special shoulder pocket designed into the fabric cover of the vest. He grabbed the black helmet, shut the locker, and stepped back to close the liftgate before running around to the driver side door and hopping in, tossing the helmet ahead of him on to the seat and being only a little more careful with the MP5.

As he inserted the key into the ignition he noticed that some more people appeared to be escaping out of the end of the right museum wing. First things first, he waved at the PD sniper still leaning across the hood, eye glued to his scope, as he cranked the big engine. The kid looked, waved back and stood clear.

Booth floored the accelerator, and the black SUV rocked as it came down off the curb and then roared down 14th Street to the other side of the Mall.

- - - - - - - -

_Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Lab_

Booth slung the MP5 and donned the helmet as he got out of the SUV, and he secured the chin strap as ran to the Lab entrance. When he pushed through the pair of doors in the vestibule he was greeted by the inner steel security doors closed, blocking the corridor for the first time in his experience, at least from _this_ side. He swiped his access card across the reader on the right wall but nothing happened. _Full lockdown._ Slightly annoyed by the delay, he was more pleased that at least someone was on the ball.

He banged on the metal doors with the butt of the collapsed stock of the MP5 but no one came. Impatient, he tried his cell again to call someone inside but service was still down. _Shit._ Just as he was about to use his radio to get someone at HQ to call the Lab on a landline the face of a guard appeared in the door's slit of security glass. The guard yelled through the wire mesh embedded in the glass, "ID!"

Booth fished it out, "Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. C'mon, you know me."

The other man nodded and briefly disappeared from view. The door opened to reveal the uptight white-shirted guard with a drawn Glock. "Man, are we glad to see you guys." As he holstered his weapon his face showed puzzlement when he realized that Booth was alone.

"Where's the rest of the cavalry?" he asked.

Booth answered, somewhat distracted as he saw Goodman, Hodgins, and Zach approaching, "They're coming any minute. I'm just point." He didn't see Temperance.

He turned back to the security guard, "What's your status? Where's your partner?" The Lab was never without two guards on duty.

"We got word a few minutes ago of an explosion in the museum, then a couple minutes later we lost contact with the office. Duncan went to check it out and help. Now we've heard that shots have been fired." The man looked almost ill at the thought.

Surely his partner leaving his post was against normal protocol, but today Booth was hardly the one to be a stickler for the rules.

Goodman and the others arrived, "Thank God you're here." The director gave Booth's attire the once over from top to bottom and his mouth tightened – he was smart enough to realize it meant things must be truly bad. "Just what is going on? Mr. Addy just informed me that reports on the Internet indicate the crisis is more than a suicide bombing."

At the mention of Bones' assistant Booth got his first good look at the other two men. Zach was pale and sweaty, and Hodgins' face was red and blotchy. Goodman himself… well the fine sheen of sweat on his dark skin betrayed the same thing – they all had the look of men who were scared and trying to hide it, but unaccustomed to needing to do so.

Booth looked past them into the lab with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He'd still seen neither Temperance nor Angela…

"It's not just a bombing. There were two suicide bombers followed by armed terrorists who entered the museum to take hostages. We think the IMAX was their target."

The three men looked like he'd struck them. Their fear was now more naked.

Goodman managed to speak first, "My God…" He swallowed, unable to continue.

Hodgins followed up with what Booth was just starting to dread, "Angela and Brennan are in the museum meeting a VIP…"

Zach finished, "… who was just getting out of a movie…" The assistant's voice trailed off.

Booth was stunned. It just couldn't get any worse. He looked up and closed his eyes briefly, _Please, God…_ He'd never forgive himself if she was… hurt … because of him. But there was nothing to do but suck it up and soldier on – this was just one more reason for going in.

After a moment he opened his eyes again and looked at the other men. _He_ was scared shitless now too, but he was able to school his features better and not show it. He'd just had a lot more practice. This was a time when 'sharing your feelings' was total bullshit. Fear was contagious – and controlling its outward manifestation helped control it on the inside too.

"I'm going to enter the museum through the back way…" He paused and pointed at the exit on the opposite side of the lab, also locked down, which led to the connecting corridor. "…and get into position and report while the full team prepares an assault."

His business-like demeanor seemed to buck up the other men even though it was a lie. Inside he was still in turmoil, guts churning.

Goodman seemed to recover the quickest. "Should we evacuate the Laboratory? Is it safe here?"

Booth thought about it briefly and replied, "No. Stay put, under lockdown. An army of cops and agents is going to be here any minute and frankly I'd rather you were here under cover than out in the open where you could get caught in a crossfire." There was no reason whatsoever for the terrorists to come back here whereas outside there was the prospect, however small, of a running gun battle.

Booth clapped both Hodgins and Zach on the back in reassurance. "Don't worry, I'll get 'em back." He prayed that it was a promise he would be able to keep. Jack nodded. The animosity between them Friday night was forgotten as Booth shouldered past them, but he was stopped by Goodman's hand on his arm.

"Agent Booth, you may find this useful." The director's other hand held out his own access card. "It should get you in anywhere you may need to go."

As Booth nodded and took the card, Goodman held out his right hand. He took it and shook it briefly. "Thanks." That was a potential problem he had not even thought of.

He turned and ran.

Goodman watched Booth run across the lab to the opposite side and then down the long connecting corridor until the closing security doors blocked him from view.

"Godspeed, Agent Booth," the director softly said to no one.

**A/N**

**All reviews are appreciated. The followup will be up very shortly.**


	24. Reconnaissance

_Jeffersonian Institute, West Wing_

Booth ran up the long connecting corridor, praying the flip-flops in his gut would settle down. He still wore the goggles down around his neck, not wanting to put on the hot protective gear until closer to showtime. For now, this deep in the non-public bowels of the complex he should have nothing to worry about. He'd slow down and change modes as he neared the security doors, accessible only by card key, which would serve as his back door into the museum proper. Once he'd crossed over from the Lab building into the actual wing off the main building he'd only encountered a few stragglers on the staff. Of course he'd ordered the squints to get the hell out. The secretary types of course had already had the common sense to get the hell out of Dodge. He didn't have the time to go looking for anyone, he had bigger priorities, but he yelled at whomever he saw while he was on the run.

But one particular squint, who made him think of Zach in another thirty years, at least if the kid never got laid, wasted a few precious seconds arguing about not wanting to leave some computer model that was running as an experiment. Booth grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders and physically propelled him in the direction of the Lab. It was all he could do to keep from literally putting his foot in the man's ass for a little extra velocity, and he almost regretted not having taken the time to have changed into his boots which would have aided in the task.

He shook his head, muttering to himself as he turned around to continue his run, but the irritation vanished as he received a shock, his first up close brush with the results of the violence in the museum. It forced him to confront just how bad it might really be inside.

"Hey, which way to the Medico-Legal Lab? We need some help."

Booth sobered as if he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. The questioner was a haunted looking man who looked to be in his forties. Not wearing a staff ID, he had to be a visitor. His pink dress shirt and the upper part of his khaki pants were soaked with the blood of the unconscious girl he was carrying in his arms. She was dressed in a blue and white plaid school uniform, where it wasn't made dark by blood, and appeared to be a second or third grader. With her head lolling back and deathly pale skin she looked so bad she might be gone already. Booth couldn't see if she was still breathing, but couldn't bring himself to check her pulse. As a parent himself he rationalized that there was no point in taking away the other man's hope when he had no way to help anyway other than by answering his question.

Booth pointed back the way from which he'd come, "Just keep following the main corridor. More help should be getting there any minute."

The man nodded his thanks, and Booth felt helpless as he stood aside. The brief squeeze he gave the other man's shoulder as he passed was totally inadequate compared to the anger and guilt which threatened to flare to life again and consume him. _Keep your head in the game!_ Other little girls and boys were still inside…

Booth stood there a few more seconds watching the trotting man as with great difficulty he battered the potentially crippling emotions back into box where they belonged for now.

He suddenly remembered something important. He called out to the man's retreating back, "Hey! How'd you get back here?"

Without stopping, the other man yelled back over his shoulder, "Some lady who works back there let us in with her badge!"

Booth turned and _ran_ again, feeling a surge of hope. Perhaps the other fears he'd been trying to suppress were baseless. _She's ok!_ But then the man's precise words sank in. His pace faltered and he nearly stumbled, "Lady." _Singular._ Doubt and worry racked him again, then guilt as he realized he was selfishly hoping it was Brennan. Angela was his friend, and she deserved his protection too. He shuffled to a stop and turned and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, thumping his helmeted head against the painted cinderblock. He didn't know if he could take this, could keep his shit together long enough to do them, do anyone, any good…

_Please God, let them both be safe. Help me help anyone inside…_

He wasted a few more precious seconds pulling himself together. _Quit fucking around!_

He took a few deep breaths, set his face in a determined mask, then began running again.

And ran head on into another shock just a couple turns later…

- - -

Angela prayed the man she'd told to run ahead could find help in time to save the young girl he'd volunteered to carry. Their little group and the dozens of others who'd got out of the IMAX had come under fire from the Rotunda one last time as they'd made their break for freedom in running from the theater exit, out of the Gallery, and into the west wing of the museum. Fortunately they'd not been followed, but they had not escaped without injury. Others in the crowd had fallen in the wild spray of machine gun fire including one of the girls from the school field trip they'd adopted after their chaperone had been killed. They'd somehow picked up a few stragglers and one man had taken charge of the wounded girl.

Angela wiped at her eyes again, trying not to cry in front of the children she was herding in the corridor as she hoped for the thousandth time Brennan had been right insisting they head for the Lab instead of going out the nearest fire exit on the side of the building. And then Brennan had been so damned hardheaded about going the other way when it was finally their chance to escape. She'd about screamed herself hoarse trying to stop her…

Angela was an emotional basket case, and was just trying to hold it together long enough to get back to safety before collapsing into a blubbering heap. The death of the grandfather had been upsetting enough, but she didn't actually see it. But she'd had a front row seat for the murder of the security guard from the lab, Duncan. She felt absolutely horrible. She remembered the day not long ago when he'd first started working in the lab. Jack had made a quiet crack to her remarking on his not so 'lean and mean' build, the typical cops-love-Dunkin' Donuts thing. She'd chuckled at the joke, then they'd both died laughing later when they learned his first name.

And he'd given his life to save them today. She felt like absolute shit.

Her recollections were interrupted by the sound of children screaming from up ahead. Janice had just rounded the next corner with a couple other children, the dead chaperone's granddaughter still on her shoulder.

Angela could just make out a male voice, "FBI! We're the good guys." And Janice's response, "It's ok, children. It's ok."

The noise from the children settled down as the agent came into view around the corner. Angela could understand why they'd screamed – they'd only seen men of the wrong sort with automatic weapons today. They were traumatized. She took in the armed figure, at first distracted by the incongruity of the black tactical gear over the remains of a business suit and the machine gun slung across his chest. Only as the man almost reached her did the face under the helmet finally register…

She couldn't help herself. She screamed, "Booth!" Then in a more normal voice, "Thank God!"

"Angela!"

She ignored the slung weapon and hugged him as the tears did finally come pouring down her cheeks. He returned the embrace for just a few seconds before startling her by shoving her back rather forcefully and staring her in the eye.

"Where is she!"

His vice-like grip on her right upper arm was almost painful, and the intensity in his eyes as he searched hers was actually frightening. She was so thrown off that it took her a second…

- - -

Impatient with her delay Booth gave her a shake, "Where is she!" His Bones was nowhere to be seen.

He hadn't known it was possible to feel such abject terror, but the almost frightened look in Angela's eyes got through to him. He realized he was hurting her, and released his hold on her arm. He tried to keep his worst fears, which seemed to be coming to fruition, at bay and apologized. He realized the hand he'd seized her arm with was shaking.

"I'm… sorry…"

He felt like an ass as she rubbed her arm, scrubbed her cheeks, and opened her mouth to speak, but whatever words she had to say went unheard as a teenaged girl came into view around the next corner just several yards ahead.

She was pulling a commandeered office chair.

An office chair serving as an improvised wheelchair.

One which carried Temperance. She was sitting side-saddle with her legs hanging over the arm rest. And she was somewhat awkwardly holding an AK.

"I'm right here." Somehow she managed to smile at him.

Booths heart did a 180, soaring. _She's alive!_ Disheveled as she was, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

But then it did a 180 again, nosediving as he noted the horrific details of her condition. He stood there motionless, barely able to breathe as she approached.

One calf dangled, the lower trouser leg of her slacks thoroughly soaked with blood.

Her cream colored blouse was also marked with blood that was only just beginning to darken, with several small tears in places. Some of the marks on the fabric were still bright, indicating some fresh bleeding from the wounds beneath.

Streaks and spatters of blood, and what appeared to be partly dried… _bits_… were on her right shoulder and the same side of her neck, and her face, and even in her hair.

He swayed and the hallway swirled around him.

The successive shocks of thinking she might be dead immediately followed by the relief of finding her alive were compounded by the rising rage and guilt he felt. It was too much. He was angry at the terrorists, and possibly even angrier at himself for his role in letting them hurt her. Worse, the AK in her hands was a reproach. He'd failed to protect her, and couldn't even save her… there was no telling what horrors she'd been through because of him…

The surging emotions threatened to completely overwhelm him, and he did the only thing he could to protect his sanity…

He ignored her smile upon seeing him and the arm she began to raise toward him…

Instead he just took care of business.

He shifted his MP5 on its sling around to his back, out of the way. Then he closed the remaining distance and bent down, only allowing himself to briefly cup her cheek with his hand to satisfy himself she really was here. But he didn't trust himself to speak, or even really meet her eyes, as he gently pried the assault rifle from her grip. He stood up and safed the weapon – he removed the magazine, which he noted was full, and yanked the charging handle to eject the round in the chamber. It wouldn't do to have some green cop get panicky at the sight of the AK and shoot them. He told the teenaged girl, who was watching everything wordlessly, to put the mag in the shoulder bag she was carrying.

"Hold out your arm," he ordered. When she did he slung the AK over her shoulder so it was hanging on her back, pointing upside down.

Then he bent back down and went back to work checking Temperance's wounds, his mouth tight.

He quickly ran his hands over her torso to make sure none of those wounds were serious. As he'd hoped, a fair amount of the blood fortunately was not hers. She had a deeper gash on the back of her left arm, but it would do for now. He grabbed her head and examined her neck and hairline, nothing there either, thank God.

Bones started to speak, but he cut her off as he turned to Angela.

"Were you guys at the IMAX?"

The artist nodded.

"How many terrorists did you see?"

"I think there were three left."

Booth decided to file that report with a grain of salt. By his count there should be five – the original four plus the backpacker. There could also be one or more ringers just like the maintenance worker. He took a second and radioed in his status.

To be on the safe side, before he worked on her leg, he took Bones by the shoulders and pulled her forward so he could check her back. He grimaced at the sight of a dozen small cuts which had bled through the blouse, but none of them appeared to be serious although some glass might still need to be picked out in the ER. She must have been near one of the blasts. _Goddamit to hell._ He felt another stab of guilt he tried in vain to squelch as he squatted down to take a closer look at her leg. He didn't like the looks of all that still bright red blood. No, not at all.

She said something but he didn't hear her as he removed her shoe then pulled out his knife and cut the trouser leg off at her knee. He wiped away the smeared blood as best as he could for a better look. Nothing. He took her foot and raised the leg for a better look on the back side of the calf. As he did, fresh blood freely dripped on to the floor tiles. _There._ He wiped away blood again, and wiped his hands on his pants. A small slit entry wound, about a half inch long. Shrapnel, not a bullet. He didn't see an exit wound so it must still be inside, continuing to cut.

The wound continued to bleed as he watched. Looking closely he was pretty sure he could see her pulse in the flow, but fortunately there was no arterial spurting. At least not yet. But the shrapnel could still do some more damage with movement.

As he reached for the bandage in his gear Angela interrupted worriedly.

"I remember reading that suicide bombers dipped the shrapnel in rat poison…"

Booth turned to her. At least that was one thing he could handle.

"That's not a problem. When they do do it, there's just not enough chemical to actually have any effects. It's just a scare tactic."

"Well they succeeded." She had another question, " Do you think we'll be safe back in the Lab? The terrorists…"

But Booth was already back on task, and he answered without thinking.

"They'll get back there over my dead body."

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Temperance flinched at his poor choice of words, and he kicked himself. _Idiot._ He started to open his mouth to apologize, but then he closed it, nodding to himself. He wasn't going to take back the words after all.

Instead he'd realized it was a solemn vow he had every literal intention of keeping.

_Back to work._

In his hurry to equip himself outside he'd missed the field bandage which should have been in the gear on his belt. _Fuck._

He improvised. He stood up straight, reached under the edge of the vest and under the gun belt, and unhooked his leather belt which he pulled out of the belt loops of his pants. He squatted back down, and wrapped the belt around Temperance's calf a couple of times before tying it off somewhat snugly. He placed it a bit above the wound, not wanting the pressure of the belt to cause tissue to cut itself against the embedded piece of metal. That was already a problem. He didn't want an actual tourniquet either, but he wanted constrict the blood flow a bit just in case.

He was finally able to look her in the eye, just barely, and speak directly to her. She'd been quietly watching his every move. His emotions were still in turmoil beneath the surface.

"If your leg starts swelling you can loosen it. But keep your leg elevated. And for the love of God stay off it."

He started to get up, but she stopped him. She reached out and touched _his_ cheek…

"Booth…"

- - -

When Brennan first heard Booth talking to Angela and then had rolled around the corner to where she could see him herself she felt like their ordeal was finally over. She _knew_ he would come for them. Tactical gear and all, he was the best looking thing she'd ever seen.

She'd fully expected to be able to finally let go of the iron self-control she'd mostly successfully held on to, and melt into his arms around her, but for some reason it didn't happen.

Instead he was almost _cold_ to her. As he'd examined her injuries, somewhat roughly even, she'd been put off by his distant manner. His body was stiff, and his face was a grim, rigid mask.

"Booth," she repeated. With her touch on his cheek, the mask finally slipped a little.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…" he half-whispered.

Even _she_ could see the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he'd been too scared for her. She didn't understand it fully, but wasn't going to let it stop her.

She stroked his cheek and enjoyed the way he started to lean into it. She gently replied with a smile, "I'm ok. It's not your fault…"

But her words didn't have quite the reassuring effect she'd intended.

For a moment he looked like was about to _break_, but then the mask slammed back into place and he jerked back and suddenly stood up as if her touch had stung him.

"I have to go. I've been here way too long." He didn't look at her as he reached around his back and pulled the MP5 sub-machine gun back around to his front on its sling.

"What?" She didn't understand…

"I'm going into the museum," he explained.

She sat there with her mouth open, not knowing how she could have been so stupid. The crisis wasn't over yet. And it was what he'd trained to do. She wanted more than anything to beg him to go back with her to the Lab and be safe, but knew she couldn't. She was ready to celebrate still being alive after everything, and now _he_ was going into danger…

- - -

Booth watched her as she processed what he'd just told her, and it tore at him, the way she suddenly looked so lost and vulnerable.

He turned away to leave, figuring he should just get it the hell over with and _go_, but he thought better of it. _What the hell..._ He turned back to her.

_Might not ever get another chance…_

He bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. Every bit as soft and warm as he'd hoped…

He realized he'd better cut it short, and he stood up.

She looked somewhat dazed, like she didn't know what to make of it. She started to open her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"You don't have to say anything…"

He had not meant to drop it on her like this… it was simply enough that she had some idea how he felt.

But she still looked lost and he felt he needed to do something about that. He remembered how tight her grip had been on the rifle and he had an idea… he flipped back the restraining band on his holster and drew his pistol.

"There's one in the chamber. Safety's on."

He put it in her lap and wrapped her hands around it. She looked at him gratefully.

"Gotta run." He lifted the goggles into place over his face and walked to the corner around which she'd just appeared herself. He turned around to look at her once more, and gave her his best smile before he disappeared from her view.

He ran.

- - -

After a moment Emily and Angela began pushing her chair toward the Lab again, after the others who'd gone on.

Brennan looked sadly back up the corridor toward the spot where he'd left her as it receded in the distance.

Her heart was in her throat.

In spite of what Angela had once said, he really wasn't a knight…

She knew from experience that the flesh underneath could be hurt, and the armor which protected it was all too small and inadequate.

…and not at all impenetrable.

- - -

In synch with the emotions of her friends, Angela's eyes were moist again, dammit.

"Angela," whispered Emily as she pulled the chair.

The artist gave her a questioning look.

"Is that him?"

Angela didn't understand the question. Apparently her confusion showed.

In response Emily simply tapped the signed book through the fabric of the shoulder bag she'd somehow managed to hold on to through everything.

Angela looked at Brennan, who was oblivious, still staring back in the direction from which they'd come, clutching the pistol.

Angela answered.

"Yeah… yes, that's him."

**A/N**

**Surely, after all that you want to review.**


	25. Recon 2

**A/N **

**I ended up splitting this chapter at 3,100 words. **

**I'll shut up now…**

_Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing_

As Booth resumed running he willed his roiled emotions to settle down again. At least he had one less thing to worry about now – his nightmare of Temperance being on the other side of a hostage standoff wouldn't come to pass now, thank God. He made a promise to think of some way to properly thank Him later. He could feel his equilibrium returning.

Soon, he reached the security door which provided his 'back door' entry point in to the actual museum. He slowed down then stopped to catch his breath.

He checked in on the radio.

"Booth here. The private areas I've passed appear to be clear, no signs of any penetration by the terrorists. I'm about to enter the public area of the West Wing. What's the status outside?"

"The outer perimeter is complete. An inner perimeter has been set upon the Mall just across the street from the front of the museum. We have some new reports of a few people starting to exit the museum from the _front_, first that have been seen."

There was no telling just what that last tidbit meant. "What about the Lab?"

"We've just been told it's secure. Another team should be moving into position in your current location before long, where they will hold for the time being."

"Got it. Just make sure they know I'll be out in front of them when they do make entry." It'd be a helluva thing to get hit by friendly fire. "I'm having to turn down my speaker volume, so it's possible I won't be able to hear you if it gets noisy." For the umpteenth time he damned the faceless drone who'd blocked his tactical radio. Right now he'd give his left nut for just a friggin' _earpiece_ for his current rig. "Count to ten so I can adjust it."

"Copy that. Oh, and good luck. Counting now: one, two, three…"

He dialed back the volume knob until he could just hear the speaker reach ten.

He took a few calming breaths and put on his game face as he closed the final gap with the security door and peeked through the wire mesh embedded in the slit window. _Nothing._ Once he went through he'd be in a much more open space with less cover where there'd be much more chance he'd be seen. He'd have to hug the various nooks and crannies along the walls. As he fished out Goodman's access card he remembered a bit of old Army lore, "You never hear the shot that kills you." Today just might be the day he found out the truth of that for himself.

He extended the collapsed butt-stock of the MP5 so he could shoot it properly from the shoulder, then he squatted down to present a smaller profile as he slid the card through slot of the magstripe card reader mounted on the door frame. It took a couple of tries from his angle before it got a good read, but he finally hit it right and the solenoid in the electronic lock made a barely audible _clunk_ as it retracted.

Booth prayed he was ready to handle the various manmade horrors he might encounter on the other side. The only good thing about the situation was that he'd been able to derail the terrorist's original plot. They'd have to improvise now on the fly, much, much better for all than if they'd had a chance to become thoroughly entrenched as at Beslan. With a handful of men at most they'd almost certainly be sticking close to each other given the large number of hostages and not lying in wait.

He carefully opened the door about halfway. Fortunately it had been mounted to swing inward so his act didn't announce itself to anyone further up the big hall.

Directly ahead of him it was clear. He could just hear the sounds of a crowd of people but the details were mercifully muffled by distance. No gunshots at the moment either, thank God. He shifted left so he could get a more oblique view off to his right before he risked getting his head shot off. It seemed clear in the immediate vicinity, but he took the small mirror out of his kit supplied just for this purpose and took another look. _Clear._ He mentally crossed his fingers, stuck his head out down low and snuck a quick peek directly to the right. No visible threats. From where he was there was not a direct line of sight all the way to the Rotunda. The main concourse was around another corner.

This was it. _Showtime._

He bolted from the doorway and ran in a crouch hugging the wall to his right to the first cover ten meters away, an upright display case containing a samurai warrior's get-up. Any other time he would have taken a professional interest in the functional yet beautiful red and black lacquered leather armor and the deadly elegance of the arcs of the paired katana and wakizashi swords, but today they registered not at all.

He began his advance trying to balance the conflicting needs for both speed and stealth. It seemed there were no more than a handful of surviving terrorists, but they could be almost anywhere even though he was counting on them being clustered near the IMAX and the hostages. If he'd had at least one teammate they would have employed a leap-frogging assault technique, but going solo, which seemed more and more a questionable decision on his part, he had to settle for a nerve wracking peek-scoot-and-repeat.

On his third stop he heard the muffled reports of two gunshots. _God dammit._ He had to continue his careful approach.

On his fourth stop, hiding in a short spur of a hallway that dead-ended in restrooms, he heard something that sent a surge of adrenaline through his system. He thought he'd already had the needle on that particular meter pegged…

"Besoraa, besoraa!" a male voice ordered from around the corner to his right. The volume was moderate, but the urgency was unmistakable.

Booth reached way back into his past and remembered…

'Faster, faster!' …in _Arabic_.

He could hear what sounded like the footsteps of only a handful of approaching men, and other softer voices which he couldn't make out but which still didn't sound like English in their rhythm.

A chill went through him. Perhaps they were trying to bug out. That didn't seem right, but he wasn't going to question his luck. So this was it…

Facing the outlet to the main concourse he quickly moved from the left wall to the right and backed into what should be their blind spot as they crossed in front of him. He'd ambush them as they passed into view. Hopefully they'd all be in front of him when he struck. He knelt down on one knee, to present a smaller target while having a stable firing position that he could still move out from quickly if needed.

He flipped the fire selector from Safe to three round burst, brought the butt-stock of the short weapon to his shoulder, reseated his hands on the forestock and pistol grip, and leaned forward to brace himself against the recoil.

_On second thought…_ He flicked the selector from burst to full auto, and put his finger on the trigger just before the first bearded man rushed into view. _Wait, wait…_

His finger began to take up the slack in the trigger…

The others came into view suddenly in a tight cluster…

_Now!_

There was barely a millimeter left in the trigger pull when he let go.

At the same instant the man in the lead spun and saw him, eyes widening in fright.

"Yaha!" he exclaimed. That was the rough equivalent in spirit to 'Oh shit!'

Booth shared the sentiment as his conscious mind caught up with his reflexes...

The man's wife, wearing a _hijab_ veil that left her face exposed over a long dress, carried a baby and had two boys, one a young teenager and the other a bit older than Parker, clinging to her.

The man spun about and grabbed them to him.

Booth had almost slaughtered them all. He lowered the MP5 and flicked the fire selector back to Safe.

He faked a reassuring smile even though it felt like his face would crack from the strain. "It's ok. I won't shoot."

The father smiled back nervously, nodding "Ok, ok." He didn't look too convinced

"Do you speak English?"

The man shook his head, "No so good."

Booth figured the difficulty of translating on the fly while scared shitless earned the man a pass. He eased forward all the way to the corner of the wall until he could point back past the direction from which he'd come without exposing himself. He dislodged a few more dusty words he thought he'd long since forgotten…

"Roah!" Go. He pointed to an emergency exit that opened on the side of the wing. "Hennak." There.

The Arab man hesitated, staring at the sub-machine gun in his hands, obviously afraid they'd be shot in the back.

_Shit. If I wanted to I already woulda… _Hell, he almost _did._ May as well put that fear to work. Booth waved his gun for emphasis though not pointing it at them.

"Egry besoraa!" he ordered. Run fast.

The man got the message this time. They fled.

Booth watched them reach the exit then leaned back against the wall and slowly sank into a squat. He closed his eyes._ Jesus Christ..._ He'd nearly wasted a whole fucking family.

Apparently he wasn't nearly as calm, cool and collected as he'd foolishly deluded himself into thinking. He opened his eyes again and smiled bitterly. Maybe Gregory had been right and this was all a bad idea… but it was far too late for second thoughts. He was committed.

But that realization didn't stop his gut from quivering and his mouth from filling with flat, metallic tasting saliva -- for a moment he thought he was going to vomit right then and there. But he didn't. He couldn't. He _had_ to get his shit together…

The emotional wringer he'd been through was taking its toll. He had excellent reflexes so that was the only explanation for his sloppiness. Too jumpy and he'd kill an innocent. Too slow to pull the trigger, and he'd get himself killed before accomplishing anything.

_Get your head back in the game, goddammit!_

Booth forced himself to stand up, and he went to the water fountain where he got a quick sip. He lifted his goggles, wet his other hand, and wiped his face. He used the radio to update the op center on his position, and warn them about the Arab family before he moved out again.

From his momentary cover a few hops later, Booth saw a gaggle of hostages make their way quickly past. These appeared to be free and headed for the exits. _Time for some intel._

A man and his teenaged son were passing…

"Psssst! FBI… over here!"

The startled look on their faces when they spotted him would have been comical but for the situation.

The father looked back in the direction of the Rotunda then pulled his son over his way.

"How did you escape? How many terrorists have you seen?" Booth asked.

The man looked shell-shocked, and his son was clearly anxious. "We didn't 'escape'. They, uh, they let us go. I don't know how many there are, but we did see a dead one in the Gallery."

_Let us go… _ "Are they holding people in the IMAX?" Booth was trying to fit the pieces together…

"They herded a bunch of us in there at first, but a few minutes ago they started splitting us up. For a while they seemed really pissed off about something and argued amongst themselves." The man nervously licked his lips, and put an arm across his son's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I thought they were about to just start shooting us all, but instead they started letting small groups go. They told us to come out this way."

"Anything else?" he demanded. _It still doesn't fit..._

A gunshot echoed, the first he'd heard since entry. Booth forced himself to ignore it and the resulting increase in crowd noises muffled by the distance.

The man looked ill and hesitated.

"Tell him, Dad," the son insisted.

"They were pulling out women, mothers with smaller children, older toddlers, kindergarteners, that sort of thing, but no infants." He looked like he was going to cry. He continued, "They only wanted one child per woman. Any more and they had to pick which child to keep with them and which to hand them off to someone. A couple men refused to be separated from their wives and… and they were shot in the head right in front of their families."

_Fucking animals._ He felt his teeth baring in a silent snarl. That was pure evil, perverting a mother's instinct to protect her children by keeping them close into an almost certain death sentence for them. _May God have mercy on them._ Now it was coming together…

"Anything else you can think of? Anything at all?"

"I think they were getting ready to move the women."

_Got it._ Booth thanked him and was about to send them on their way when he thought of one more thing… "Is your wife…?" he couldn't bring himself to finish the question.

The man shook his head, blinking back tears, "No, she's at home with our youngest who has a broken leg." He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "I never thought a compound fracture would be good luck."

Booth eyes stung as he patted him on the shoulder, "Thank you. I have to go." He'd had no idea that being a parent himself would bring such painful sympathetic reactions; he'd better be careful or he'd lose it at the worst possible time.

The man wiped at his eye as he nodded, then changed gears suddenly. His expression was now fierce as he gripped Booth's forearm, "Nail one of those motherfuckers for me!"

It was Booth's turn to nod silently, his throat tight, as the father and son left.

He had to wait a second to get back his voice before radioing it all in. He summarized what he'd been told then gave his conclusions…

"It sounds to me like they're shorthanded and releasing hostages they can't really control properly anyway, using them to provide cover as they regroup. I'm guessing they are looking to fall back to a smaller, more defensible space for a reduced group of hostages. I'm going to try to get closer."

He tried to put himself in the shoes of the terrorists, and another thought, a particularly nasty one, occurred to him. He felt dirty just thinking about it. "Don't be surprised if they start shooting at the last batch of hostages being released as they make their way out." Having to deal with casualties and the increased chaos would further slow down any advance by rescuers.

The brain trust on the other end promised to pass on the intel.

Booth continued his frustratingly slow advance, hugging every bit of cover. With more small groups of released hostages passing by now, there was even more reason not to draw fire.

He was still well short of the Rotunda and the Gallery when he caught what would be one of his few lucky breaks. On the south side of the west wing, ahead and to his right lay the entrance to the hall used for special traveling exhibits. It was of more modern construction and had just opened a few years ago. Several months back he'd brought Parker to a kid-friendly exhibit on exotic bugs.

As Booth was advancing to his next hide he saw his first terrorist. The man, armed with an AK and wearing a bomb vest, was bringing up the rear of the group of women and children he'd been told about. He only a caught a brief glimpse as, at the same moment he went to ground trying to disappear himself, the group passed out of sight into the exhibit hall.

He'd almost blown it by being seen. _Shit._ Regardless, he was too far away to get a reliable headshot with the short barreled MP5 anyway. _Shit!_

He radioed in what he saw, waited a few more seconds, then broke cover and ran up near the entrance. He didn't like what he found…

The bug exhibit, which had had lots of both great cover _and_ room for maneuvering with multiple avenues of approach, had been replaced, and in its stead was one on the treasures of some long lost sunken coastal town from ancient Greece, with a big "Pardon Our Progress" banner hung to inform guests that the new exhibit would open in another month. Where there had been a broad opening there was now a walled off false front and a narrow entrance to a curving corridor. The layout had totally changed. There had been some hard walls inside, he remembered, but it appeared temporary walls had been installed to better guide the flow of foot traffic. _Fuck!_ Now as far as he was concerned it may as well be a fucking maze.

He racked his brains trying to figure out just why, other than the goofy floor plan, they would think it was a good hiding place. He remembered – inside near the back there was a smaller auditorium and some adjacent bathrooms. He passed his theory on.

_Shit._ He was frustrated. It looked like he'd reached the end of his run even though the most vulnerable hostages were probably with a hundred feet or so of his current position. But the labyrinth inside was just too unknown. Everything now pointed to doing it by the book from here on out – waiting for a full team and trying to find the proper back way in. _ God dammit. _

He was about to ask for guidance when he heard shouts and screams from inside and an expectant chill ran through him…

_BR-R-RAP!_

Even muffled by the walls, the sound of the gunshots felt like a punch in the gut. The screaming, crying and shouting rose in volume until punctuated by another gunshot, after which the voices inside slowly subsided to a murmur again. _Women and children…_

The anger which had been under control was threatening to boil over again.

He keyed the radio, "They are killing hostages. I'm going in."

**A/N**

**Please review.**


	26. Rendezvous

**A/N**

**I back up here just a little bit – or you may want to re-read ch25 anyway.**

**See you on the other side…**

_Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall_

Booth was about to ask for guidance when he heard shouts and screams from inside and an expectant chill ran through him…

_BR-R-RAP!_

Even muffled by the walls, the sound of the gunshots felt like a punch in the gut. The screaming, crying and shouting rose in volume until punctuated by another gunshot, after which the voices inside slowly subsided to a murmur again. _Women and children…_

The anger which had been under control was threatening to boil over again.

He keyed the radio, "They are killing hostages. I'm going in."

The voice on the radio tried to argue, "Wait for backup. Regional SWAT is prepping in the Lab."

_Not HRT…_ "There's no time!" He grimaced, "They'll just have to catch up." _And pick up the pieces. If any. _He vowed he wasn't going to wait while anyone else died.

He tuned out the chatter and advanced to the entry, stepping over the velvet rope that had been unhooked on one end and an easel which had been knocked over. The noises from inside sounded farther away, and he ran around the curved entryway about fifteen yards to where the left hand wall ended suddenly. The hallway doubled back on itself in a switchback. He bet the corridor zigzagged a few times until it reached a larger open area toward the center or rear where the more spectacular specimens would be on display. He slowed ever so briefly to mentally flip a coin, which came up heads. Without pausing to peek he rounded the corner and sprinted past statues and smaller display cases in various states of assembly to the opposite end to the next switchback about 30 yards away. Here he did come to a stop, and he pulled out his mirror…

He went to one knee and held it down low around the end of the thin wall, angling it to sweep the reflected view where he wanted…

_God fucking dammit._

It looked like two bodies near the bend at the other end. If only he'd made it thirty seconds earlier… _Shit._ He tucked the mirror away, darted around the corner and raced to the bodies, his eyes on the next bend the whole time, MP5 at the ready. He counted on the carpeting to muffle his footsteps.

The larger body extended out into the turn where it would be visible to anyone in the next leg of the passage, so he had to slow and put the mirror to use before he could turn his attention to the downed hostages. The coast was clear. From their sounds the terrorists and their remaining hostages were still ahead of him.

Even though he was practically standing on top of the woman, Booth felt himself helplessly and inexorably drawn back to the body of the child twenty feet back, a boy of five or six with light brown hair whom he couldn't help but compare to Parker. He tried to make himself stop that, knowing continuing to do it would drive him out of his mind.

Incredibly, the boy was curled up on his side as if sleeping, his face almost peaceful…

Peaceful, except for the fact he wasn't breathing.

Peaceful, except for the blood which trailed from his mouth and nostrils.

Peaceful, except for the nearly yard-wide pool of blood still spreading sluggishly as it soaked into the carpet from his chest which was a mass of crimson hamburger. Clearly he'd taken the burst. There was nothing for Booth to do.

Booth felt something inside him perilously near the breaking point as he turned back to what he assumed was the boy's mother. He moved more quickly this time, hoping against hope she might be alive, yet wondering if she'd thank him if she survived her child…

He set the MP5 down as he dropped to his knees beside her. She was facing away from him, not quite face down.

He reached over and rolled her back toward him until she was lying face up.

She was a pretty brunette with green eyes… and with the lower part of her face a gaping red ruin. Not a bullet wound but perhaps a blow from a rifle butt. Her shirt was bloody, and he ripped it open to expose the single puckered bullet hole in the center of her chest just above the bra clasp. Right to the heart. Judging by the blood merely oozing out, there was no pulse. Sickeningly, she was still warm.

With a start, he turned his hands over, palms up, as he realized they were covered in blood, and he practically jumped to his feet in shock as an image flashed before his unseeing eyes of another woman and child he'd been unable to save all those years ago in Kurdistan… _he was kneeling in the dust of the alleyway, he looked up from hands made bloody by his futile effort to put compression on both sides of the woman's blown out carotid, past her guts spread across her torso in the impromptu Caesarean, to the village midwife shaking her head as she held up the tiny slimy, bluish and lifeless body still trailing a bloody umbilical cord…_

_SNICK_ ting

Booth shook it off and looked down in horror…

Transfixed by the nightmarish vision from his past, he'd missed the fragmentation grenade with it's pin removed that had been wedged under the woman's body in the here and now as a booby-trap. When jostled, it had rolled out of her armpit and away from him…

The sound of the spring-loaded striker popping off the "spoon" handle as it ignited the internal fuse had snapped him out of it.

_Oh shit…_

He made a split second decision… and dove across the corpse _toward_ the grenade.

But he forgot about the blood…

He grabbed the grenade, and it practically _squirted_ out of his slippery hands, ending up a couple feet even further away, the gray painted sphere spinning on its side.

Nearly fully extended already, he made a heart-bursting desperate lunge and managed to get a grip on it. He scooped it up and flung it back behind him up the hall…

BANG!

Stunned by the close call and the too-close-for-comfort blast, it took him a second to realize he'd been hit.

His body armor had protected his back from the shrapnel, but he learned his ass wasn't quite so lucky when he wiped his hands on his pants, picked up the MP5 and staggered to his feet. It burned, but it was just the proverbial flesh wound. More troubling was the ringing in his right ear and the pain which he hoped wasn't a ruptured eardrum.

He was angry with himself for being so fucking stupid in falling for the trap. His old Fort Benning DI would, hell _should_, rise from his grave in Arlington to kick his dumb ass.

_So much for the element of surprise… _He'd set off the terrorist's improvised alarm but good.

Then he got a look at the additional violence the exploding grenade had done to the body of the little boy, and his anger turned to a white hot fury.

The terrorists would expect that whoever had tripped the booby-trap had suffered casualties and would need to regroup or even retreat. The terrorists might even use the moment of vulnerability to mount a counterattack if they had the manpower.

But Booth did neither...

Instead, he _attacked_. He charged up the winding corridor…

Current Marine Corps doctrine called for assaulting forward through an ambush, and sheer speed might help him recover some of the element of surprise.

But it wasn't really that rational.

Mainly he was just mightily fucking pissed.

He ran on, hoping the carpet would help mute his pounding steps at least a little. With his good ear he could hear renewed shouts and cries somewhere up ahead. He reached the other end of this leg of the corridor, slowed slightly to pivot and he pushed off his left foot as he made the sharp turn to his right. He kept his head up and MP5 at the ready at his hip as he accelerated again into the straightaway.

As he neared the end of this leg for the next turn a fragmentation grenade appeared from around the corner, bounced off the wall in a bank shot and was rolling toward him. Instead of dropping to the floor he picked up the pace even more and ran over and _past_ it, hitting the far wall and pushing off it to reverse direction back up the next section of corridor.

BANG!

He was already around the bend and he was protected from the blast

Still moving, he was just twenty five feet away from the terrorist who'd tossed the grenade. Booth's sudden appearance and speed had taken him off guard after all. The other man was half way to grabbing another grenade when he realized his mistake. He aborted the move and reached for his weapon, but Booth's was ready first…

He fired the MP5 from the hip, his first three-shot burst catching the target right in the ten ring. From long training he slowed a little and smoothly brought the MP5 up to his shoulder to immediately follow up with the burst to the head…

BL-BL-BLAM!

The terrorist was already falling back wards and the three big 10mm rounds caught him under the chin, taking off most of his head.

They sure as hell knew he was coming now.

'_Speed is life.'_

He kept charging up to and around the next turn…

… and right out in to the large open area.

He came under poorly aimed fire, and, while still moving, his MP5 seemed to find the shooter almost of its own volition…

He caught himself with a millisecond to spare… _no target!_

The other terrorist was in the midst of hostages he'd forced into some sort of large alcove instead of being caught into the open himself. Booth couldn't take the shot, at least not on the run.

But stop or even slow down, and he'd be dead meat.

The terrorist was under no such constraints. His rounds walked toward Booth, chewing up the tile floor in this section.

Booth did the only thing he could. He dove for the only cover in sight in the middle of the atrium...

**A/N**

**Review away.**


	27. Reckoning

**A/N**

**Hang on.**

**3,200 words.**

_Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall_

Booth was on his belly behind the welcome solidity of the modernistic stone bench fighting off a sickening feeling of déjà vu.

_Helluva time for regrets_…

Pinned down as he was, he made himself ignore the stinging of the gash on his face and the shrapnel in his ass as he snuck another peek through the narrow gap between the bench and the adjacent column with his mirror. He would have laughed at the thought of being wounded in both sets of cheeks if it weren't for the fact he'd apparently piled fuckup on top of fuckup by being so damned gung ho.

When he had jumped for cover behind the blocky bench he'd overshot his target and slid a few feet past it on the tile floor into the open on the other side. He'd had to scramble madly to get back behind cover, but fortunately his miscalculation had been just as much of a surprise to the terrorist barely a dozen yards away. He'd only got off a couple more rounds at Booth, but he'd almost got lucky anyway as one of them knocked a shard off the bench that struck him on the cheek laying it open. If it hadn't been for the goggles he might have lost an eye.

As he was shaking off the sting of the impact he heard the terrorist yell out a curse and a metallic clatter that sounded just like a magazine hitting the hard floor. _He's reloading!_ Booth popped up above the bench seat hoping to take him off guard. He acquired him in his sights for a split second and was about to squeeze off a round when the terrorist slipped behind a screaming woman standing against the left wall of the alcove.

He was stunned for second with a shiver running down his spine at how close he'd come to making the same mistake he'd made in that alley all those years ago, leaving his head in plain sight like a damned fool.

The bomb wearing terrorist finished reloading at the same instant Booth recovered from the shock and dropped out of sight behind the bench. The shot fired that time must have missed his helmet by a mere fraction of an inch.

The large open area, which he was stuck right in the fucking middle of, was in the process of being turned into a recreation of the Greek town – a marketplace, a section of amphitheater, and, across from him, what he guessed what was going to be a one room house with walls on three sides, now occupied by the bomber and his hostages. All the work so far had been on structures and not furnishings so there wasn't shit for cover other than the walls themselves. Booth considered himself lucky that the bench, which clearly clashed with the new theme, was still here. There was a round column to the right of the bench which turned out to be a damned fake, some of the AKs bullets having revealed it for the carved Styrofoam and stucco paint job it was. It was perfectly shitty luck, useless for real cover but impeding his view.

The bastard had taken refuge behind a relatively large blonde woman who had a crying Chinese girl of about five or six clinging to her, probably an adopted daughter. The woman was out front along the left wall of the 'house' and unfortunately provided plenty of cover. Booth would have given anything to have been back a hundred yards with his sniper rifle – even the brief glimpses he was getting of the man's head would have been enough. But this close, practically in spitting distance, he was shit out of luck. Worse, looking around there were no windows or skylights that could be used by a sniper outside. _Fuck._

In response to the terrorist's shouted threats, and no doubt the example of the dead woman and her son back in the winding entry corridor, the other women were cowering along the back wall, naturally as far away from him as they could get, twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. They had pushed their children behind them against the wall trying to shield them with their own bodies. But they were still far too close to the bomber for any peace of mind.

Booth's own position was shit. Down low behind the sliver of cover provided by the bench, he could barely see what was going on. He had to settle for quick peeks from between the bench and column, mostly by way of his little mirror. Stick _his_ head up for a shot, even assuming there would be a clear target, and the other man could all to easily shoot it off, helmet or not.

The other man had not fired at him any more other than just a handful of shots after he'd reloaded. The SOB was apparently sharp enough to realize he needed to conserve ammo because Booth could nail him during a reload.

Booth prayed that the crying children, and a few of the women, would settle down. That was the last thing that a twitchy suicide bomber needed to be putting up with.

Problem was, they had themselves a fucked up Mexican standoff though one which seemed lopsided in the terrorist's favor. Booth couldn't attack although he was safe enough behind cover. Small miracle, this man appeared to have no grenades, otherwise it would already be over. On the other hand, the terrorist had his hostages and had him basically pinned down, but if _he_ attempted to move out he became vulnerable to attack.

_Shee-it._

Since Booth had no doubt whatsoever the other man was fully prepared to blow himself up, the only reason he hadn't must be that he was still trying to cling to his original mission, which presumably was to drag out a hostage crisis as long as they could. The priority in these things wasn't just a body count in and of itself, but to inflict as much terror and humiliation on the larger populace as possible. Any demands from these assholes were utter bullshit, pure gravy if any of them were met, but generally designed to be impossible. Cocksuckers _wanted_ a situation with no way out so they could go out in a blaze of glory and get their seventy-two virgins.

Booth figured that as long as the other man clung to the front of the wall, indicating that he still had hopes of getting out and over to the intended refuge of the auditorium, that ka-boom time wasn't at hand. But once the pressure started getting to him it was going to get real bad real quick. When the larger mission looked hopeless there would be no reason for him to put off martyrdom and his own reward.

The other man began softly praying in Arabic.

_Oh fucking shit._ He hoped the terrorist wasn't getting ready to pull that wire ripcord that was dangling out his bomb vest. Several times he'd seen him via the mirror touching it as if reassuring himself his ticket to Paradise was still there. Booth pressed the send button on the radio and muttered his own updated status. He had to simply hope they could understand him. He didn't dare turn up the radio volume so he could hear any response.

Then he used the time to quietly say a couple of prayers himself.

The other man was quiet now, and by some miracle the hostages were pretty quiet too. The short break, if it could be called that, had allowed him to cool off some.

And to realize just how badly he'd fucked things up…

He'd pulled a half-cocked Rambo just like Gregory'd said, totally destabilizing the dangerous situation…

He tried to, but couldn't fully push aside the soul-destroying thought that in his original approach to the exhibition hall he might have been seen or heard, and that the mother and son had been executed specifically to serve as bait for _him_.

Then in prematurely attacking and cornering the terrorists, he'd thrown off all of the dynamics or, rather, accelerated them. One way or the other, ready or not, this was going to end today – without at least one partner to share watches with, come the first good yawn, or the overpowering need to take a crap, the bomber was going to let it rip. Booth had stupidly and totally forced him into a 'use it or lose it' mode.

Booth just didn't think he could get the drop on him, even if the other man made a small mistake – from his highly constricted spot in cover he just couldn't get up into a decent firing position _and_ acquire the man's head fast enough. The MP5 _had_ to have two hands on it no matter what kind of bullshit you saw in action movies -- yet he needed at least one hand to get up. And the Styrofoam fake column gave no real protection for him to just shift sideways along the floor.

Worse, he'd foolishly deprived himself of the best weapon for his situation…

He glanced at his thigh, and the mouth of the empty holster mocked him. He slapped it in frustration. At this short range the pistol would have been accurate enough, and it was small enough he could have brought it bear on the target fast enough _and_ one handed.

He grimaced. His stupid fucking gesture in giving it to Bones was very probably going to cost some lives.

But as soon as the thought occurred to him he swore he'd never tell her. It was his problem, not hers. He'd take it to his grave – which might now come sooner rather than later making the point moot.

Even shittier, "just wait for backup" in order to let it become someone else's headache wouldn't work either – not that he'd do that anyway. Once the terrorist knew he was surrounded he'd blow, not willing to risk being taken down first, not without his escort of murdered victims.

Still, he might get one chance to take him out.

If the terrorist blew himself up where he stood it was hopeless. But if he really wanted to ensure maximum carnage he would move toward the back into the midst of the hostages.

So he might have a tiny window in which to act.

Problem was… the woman and girl playing human shield in front would likely be caught in his line of fire. But God help him, he'd shoot if he had to in order to save the others -- even though he knew that going down that path meant that he might eat a bullet over it someday. He knew himself too well.

Booth's hands had become sweaty clutching the MP5, and he reseated his hands on the grips nervously. He'd crabbed backwards a couple of feet more so the bench did not block his field of view quite so much, but he dared not go back farther because he had no way of knowing when his legs might become visible over the top of the bench to the terrorist.

After using his mirror for another peek through the gap between the bench and the column, he was considering the risks versus the merits of attempting to turn end over end so that he would be on his back with his feet toward the bench for a better view and mobility – all those crunches should be good for something --when one of his prayers was answered.

His peripheral vision caught some movement to the right, just past the edge of the column.

_Thank you, God._

It was the black clad lead man of an element of the local FBI SWAT whom he recognized by sight from prior cases. He tried to remember the name… Davis. The other five men of his team would be stacked up against the wall behind him in the passageway. And they'd had enough sense to not come shouting his name. He _still_ swore he was going to take a scalp over his damned radio situation because between his damaged hearing in the one ear and the need to keep the speaker volume so low that the terrorist couldn't hear – he was effectively deaf when it came to the radio.

The leader, careful to remain hidden in the opening, used his hands to sign, _Situation?_

Booth signed back, _one shooter, hostages_, made the shape of a gun with his hand and then patted his own vest and silently mouthed _'bomb'_. And of course he pointed in the man's direction through the bench.

Davis replied, _Understood._

One more thing Booth had to make crystal clear to him…

He patted his vest again while mouthing _'bomb'_, tapped his head with his index finger, then made a pistol with his hand aimed at his own head and dropped his thumb like the hammer of a revolver. They had to go for the head shot so they wouldn't set off the bomb themselves. He eyed Davis carefully.

Davis gave him a thumbs up then pointed through the wall in the direction of the terrorist and then finally made a pistol and fired at his own head. Booth nodded and gave him a thumbs up in return. Thank God for small miracles.

He signed another question although he already knew the answer. _Do you have the shot?_

Davis shook his head _No_ then signaled _Wait._

Another team member inched forward into view on his belly beside Davis with a flexible fiber optic scope. He carefully bent the thin gooseneck shroud into a rounded off right angle and carefully eased it out into the open, past the end of their wall near floor level.

Booth held his breath…

The scope guy turned to Davis where Booth couldn't see his answer.

Davis shook his head, _No shot. _The scope man went prone again to keep watch.

_Fuck._ Just as Booth had feared, the ends of the wall of the entryway and the wall the terrorist had his back to behind the hostage came the same distance out into the lager room. There was no way the SWAT team could see the terrorist for a shot without exposing themselves. Worse, with his back mostly to the left wall of the display, the bomber was already half facing the direction from which the assault would come – which was further complicated by the fact that as right-handers they'd have to come much farther out into the open to aim their weapons. _Fuck._

They both knew they needed a diversion. Booth gave Davis an exaggerated one-armed shrug, _Any ideas?_

Davis held up a hand, _Wait_, and turned back to the man behind him then turned around again. He held up a flash bang grenade. _This?_

Booth considered it for a moment then reluctantly but vigorously shook his head _No_, and made the movie director's 'cut' motion across his throat for emphasis.

The deafening sound and blinding flash of the special grenade were designed to disorient the target so he could not fight back effectively. But with a suicide bomber that was not all they were worried about – even deafened and blinded it would be no great difficulty for him to simply detonate, blowing himself and those around him straight to hell. And this particular motherfucker had shown some ability to think on his feet. Plus with that flaky TATP shit, just the concussion of the flash bang might set it off. _Shit._

Booth racked his brains for a few seconds in vain. He could only think of one diversion even though he didn't much care for it. But it should definitely work. The hostages couldn't wait all day for them to come up with a better one because at any moment the terrorist might realize the jig was up anyway and decide to 'Allahu Akhbar' himself into the arms of those promised seventy-two virgins.

He waved for Davis' attention then gestured...

_You. Head shot. On me. Understand?_

Davis nodded and gave a thumbs up. From the look his in eyes he really did understand.

Booth took stock of himself. He carefully stretched and flexed his limbs to the limited extent that was safe then he rechecked his weapon. He took one more peek using his mirror to confirm the position of the bomber. Still the same. But the praying had resumed a bit more fervently this time, and Booth still thought that was a bad sign.

He grimaced then nodded as he pre-positioned himself as best he could given the need to stay hidden just a little longer. He owed the women on the other side – he was the one who'd been too slow to stop the first batch of assholes to which this bomber and the one he'd already whacked belonged. No one else was going to die if he could possibly help it. Anyway, who knew? He might even get lucky.

He gestured to Davis, _Ready?_

He got a thumbs up in return. Davis had flattened himself against the wall to make room for another man beside him who was already turned to his right, the butt of his weapon up to his shoulder at the ready. _Must be his best close quarters man…_

Booth let go of the pistol grip of the MP5 with his right hand briefly.

He made the Sign of the Cross.

He gripped his weapon again and reached across it with his left and gestured _On Me!_ _Go!_

Rising up to stand was every bit as awkward and slow as he'd expected.

The woman saw him move a split second before the terrorist and screamed just as the man's eyes widened behind her. Just as Booth had hoped, he couldn't resist the provocation and violently elbowed the woman aside as he aimed his AK from the hip, only a small change from its currently slung position…

The woman and her daughter were falling to the floor…

Booth's weapon was only starting to come to bear, in his case having to come all the way up to his shoulder for an aimed head shot…

_Not even close._ He took his finger off the trigger so it wouldn't accidentally go off, but continued to raise the weapon maintaining the charade…

The terrorist's eyes narrowed as he squeezed his trigger...

…on full auto.

Booth's old sergeants were wrong. Even half deaf he distinctly heard the muzzle blast of each and every shot.

The first two rounds missed him low to his left, but the recoil made the AK's barrel rise as the shooter corrected his aim laterally.

The rest of the burst stitched diagonally across Booth's armor from his left hip up toward the right side of his rib cage.

The Teflon-coated tungsten tipped armor piercing rounds bashed and slipped their way through the Kevlar fibers of the vest.

Burning sledgehammer blows knocked the breath out of him as he staggered back until a final deep lance of fire took him to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

But on the way down he heard the double bark of the SWAT shooter's M4 assault rifle blowing the other man's brains out on to the wall beside him.


	28. Redemption

_Jeffersonian Museum, West Wing, Mitchell Exhibition Hall_

Funny, he didn't even feel hitting the hard tile of the floor.

He was on his back, one leg awkwardly bent back up underneath him, but he barely felt it given everything else that was wrong with him. All of his senses were tinged with a red haze of pain, but his gut felt like someone had speared him with a white-hot poker and given it a good stir.

Women and children were screaming and male voices were trying to sooth them, but one shout stood out over the ruckus, "Clear!" He tried lifting his head to see what was going on, but the effort was too much. Instead he was stuck with a view of the small dusty cobwebs between the light fixtures on the ceiling.

He could barely breathe. It almost felt like he was drowning. He tried to crack open the vest but his fingers didn't seem to have any strength and he gave up.

Afraid of what he might find, he reached under the edge of his vest and carefully touched himself… hot and sticky wet. With difficulty he raised a bloody hand into view then let it drop at his side.

He felt like someone was sitting on his chest, and the struggle to breathe was taking its toll. His vision began to narrow with oxygen deprivation.

But his hearing, at least in the good ear, was fine. He heard running footsteps, then felt tugs at his vest as others shouted in the background.

"Oh _shit_…" That one was nearby.

He didn't recognize the SWAT trooper who appeared over him. He turned his head and shouted, "Man down over here!" He repeated it into his radio, but Booth couldn't make out the response. "Hang in there buddy, help's on the way."

With what little strength he had Booth grabbed at him with his left arm and gasped out a warning, "…hostages… bomb…"

"They're all ok, they're clear. I'm gonna drag you farther away from the bomb for the EMTs so they can work on ya."

He'd done it. _This_ time he'd managed to save her and her child. He'd saved all of them. If he didn't make it he could die happy. He ought to be smiling.

But why were his cheeks wet?

The other man disappeared from his view. Then a second later he felt rough hands at his shoulders.

"This is probably gonna hurt."

He struggled to speak, "Tell her I… tell Bones…"

He was moved and sure as fuck it _really_ hurt. Seized in a vice-grip of pain, he couldn't finish the words. He was getting cold. Hell, he couldn't even _breathe_. He closed his eyes…

_Oh God, this must really be it… _

Stark fear almost displaced the pain. He so wanted to live. In dying he would let down the people he loved most…

_I'm sorry, Parker. Sorry, Temperance._

He was forgetting something else... oh yes, the Act of Contrition he learned back in parochial school…

_Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended…_

Something jarred him again, sending more waves of pain cascading through him, and he heard himself cry out.

"Sorry, EOD says we're still too close. Gotta move you one more time, just a little farther…" The interrupting voice sounded further away now.

This time it was even more excruciating. Muscles seized in agony, forcing the last air from his lungs.

He didn't get to finish his prayer…

Instead, his very last thought was the half-formed, absurd realization that he'd pissed all over himself.


	29. Refuge

**A/N**

**At times this fic has seemed like the 'never ending story' as it keeps stretching out. **

**This was turning into another mega-monster chapter topping 8k words, the longest one of the whole story so far. It still needed a little work on the back end so I split it in two unequal parts. The remaining 5,000 plus words should be up on Wednesday.**

_Monday, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Laboratory_

When Emily pushed her improvised wheelchair around the last corner so she could see the entrance to the Lab up ahead, Brennan finally felt like she could breathe again. At least a little. She was still worried sick about Booth, but they were 'home' now. She was wiped out by the relentless grind of events and desperately needed a reprieve.

But she still knew it wasn't really over. Not yet…

Others in their group of refugees had already preceded them, and the Lab's big steel security doors were being held open by a white-shirted Jeffersonian guard and Dr. Goodman himself. Not one but _two_ Washington D.C. policemen stood at the ready with automatic rifles and blue vests. Hodgins and Zach stood anxiously a bit further inside.

"Mom!"

Emily gave a startled cop the AK rifle she'd been carrying then ran in past them to join her mother who was still with the school children. It was only a few minutes since they'd seen each other, but Brennan didn't begrudge them their hug. She'd give anything in the world to see her own mother at that moment.

"Thank, God, you two are safe!"

Her attention was drawn back to Goodman. He eyed her condition but said nothing else as he ushered them inside quickly. The doors were re-secured behind them with a _clunk_ as the solenoids of the electronic locks slammed home.

He stopped and turned to them, "I take it you saw Agent Booth?"

Brennan nodded, but for some reason the words seemed to come slowly to her… Angela answered for her, "Yes. We were already on the way back here."

Goodman was somewhat startled by this, "You mean you escaped? How?"

It was obvious that they had not done so unscathed. He'd addressed the question to Angela, the one who'd spoken, but she turned toward Brennan.

She just couldn't do this right now. "Not without… difficulty." Now _that_ had to be the understatement of the year. She added quietly, "I'd rather not talk about it at the moment, if you don't mind."

Goodman's mouth shut with a nearly audible snap. "Why of course. I understand." His eyes indicated nothing of the sort, but he had the good grace to give them their space. "By all means."

He indicated her leg with the belt strapped around it just below the knee. "It appears you need medical treatment, but I am afraid we are still in lockdown until the museum has been secured. For now the authorities only want the direst of medical emergencies being transported in the open."

"I totally understand." She wasn't ready to leave yet anyway.

Goodman nodded then left them heading toward two men in full black tactical gear on the opposite side of the lab, but he stopped and turned when she called out to him after all.

"What happened to the little girl?"

He was confused for a split second then he recognized what she was talking about. He deflated, shoulders sagging. "She has been evacuated, but it appeared to me to be unlikely that she will survive."

She nodded wordlessly. Goodman continued on his way.

So everyone wasn't going 'home' after all. She tried to be clinical focusing on the injuries she'd observed so she could avoid the fact that the girl was actually someone's daughter.

Zach and Hodgins stepped in to welcome them back with smiles of relief on their faces. Jack gave Angela a hug which she returned wholeheartedly, and Zach patted Brennan's shoulder, hesitant at the physical display. But their reunion was interrupted by the lone Jeffersonian security guard who still wore a worried expression on his face.

"Excuse me, Dr. Brennan, but did either of you see Duncan inside? Officer Travis?"

It was her turn to be briefly confused. Then she felt terrible for not having even remembered his name properly.

Beside her Angela let out a strangled sob and took Hodgins aside into one of the cubicles.

So it fell to her. Booth must be rubbing off on her because for once she didn't know what to tell him.

The _truth_, idiot! said that little voice in her head.

_But not the whole truth_, she responded. She nodded to herself, sure Booth would approve.

The guard's name tag said 'Burns', and she vowed to remember it. He looked down at her half fearfully, correctly anticipating that her pause was bad news.

"Duncan was killed helping us escape." She tried to squash the image that arose in her mind as she said it. There was a time when she would have unflinchingly described the mortal wounds in detail, but not any more. At least not today.

Burns' lips made a thin line and he nodded. He was obviously trying to hold back his emotions, for which she was grateful because she was at the ragged edge of her own limit.

The guard turned away, but something compelled her to add one more item of information. It shouldn't really make a difference in a sense, but it _did_.

"He shot and killed a terrorist who was attacking us before he died."

Burns paused without turning around again and choked out, "Thank you," before she watched him walk away. She saw that instead of going somewhere to grieve in private he returned to his post by the door. He still had a job to do, and he did it.

She made a promise to herself to never take them for granted again.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan." She felt another touch at her shoulder.

She'd forgotten that Zach was still standing there beside her.

She turned her head to look up at her ever loyal assistant, and she smiled at him.

"It's ok to hug me, Zach. I won't break."

He hugged her awkwardly, but she gave him a good tight squeeze for several seconds before letting go. She, Temperance Brennan, actually needed a little human contact.

"Will you push me to my office? I want to get on the couch and elevate this leg."

"Sure." Zach practically jumped to help her.

In the meantime a few more men in full SWAT regalia had entered, and she passed where they were assembling. They were checking and re-checking their own and each other's gear. Some of the men turned and looked at her as she passed, some nodding grimly, others betraying some upset although they hid it well. Like the security guards, out on cases with Booth she'd often just seen them as part of the background, faceless uniforms, muscle with guns.

But now she wondered if each individual man she saw had someone who cared about him, someone who worried for him whenever he responded to the call…

In her office she had Zach turn out the brighter overhead light, then hold the office chair stationary as she transferred herself to the couch. She rearranged a cushion, swung her legs up sideways, then laid back, ignoring some of the stings as she did so.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" He was practically wringing his hands.

Actually there was…

She'd practically forgotten about Booth's pistol until he asked. She'd been clutching it like some sort of primitive talisman that was her lifeline to Booth via sympathetic magic. But now it was time to trade it for a more functional one, one that operated by the 'magic' of technology.

"Here, take this and lock it in my upper left desk drawer and get my cell phone, please."

Zach looked at the extended gun like it was a rattlesnake.

"I'm sorry." With practiced ease she triggered the magazine release with her thumb and caught the dropping clip in her left hand. She set it down and pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber, which she reinserted into the top of the clip. She handed him the two items separately. "It's safe now."

He took them gingerly and went over to her desk.

"Oh, and if you could get me some water and aspirin…"

Zach stood up from fishing in the desk with his hands on his hips and looked at her like she was an idiot child. "Are you sure you want _aspirin_?"

She shook her head. The last thing she needed was an anticoagulant. She gave him a small smile, "Tylenol please."

He fetched the items for her and she gratefully accepted them. However she really didn't want him to keep hovering over her like a mother hen. She wanted to be alone and get her surging emotions under control while waiting for the crisis to be over. She knew the emotions were really nothing more than the tides of hormones and neurotransmitters affecting the synapses of her brain, completely illusory from the standpoint of chemistry, but that knowledge did not stop her from _feeling_ them. Or from hurting.

She looked at her phone, not that she would dare try calling Booth at the moment. What if he didn't have his phone on vibrate? But the issue was moot anyway – there was no signal.

Fortunately she was rescued from Zach's fidgeting by Angela in the doorway.

"Zach, why don't you help Jack? He's going to entertain the kids with his bugs, and he could use your help."

"Certainly," he replied, but he looked at Brennan as if for permission.

"Go! I'll be fine." She waved him off.

He nodded and left, squeezing past Angela and the small rolling cart she was pushing.

For the first time ever, Brennan felt bad about her chosen profession. Even if she had felt up to it, what could she have done with the kids? Trot out a pile of bones? The last thing the children needed to see was more reminders of death. She felt useless.

She made herself push aside the thought and focused on her friend. The cart held two small stainless steel pans full of water and a stack of white cloths.

"I thought we'd try to get you cleaned up." Angela pursed her lips as she pushed the cart beside the couch and grabbed herself the wheeled chair from behind the desk.

Brennan's hands went to her face… "Oh…" Then she looked at the wreckage of her blouse.

Crazy as it sounded she had honestly forgotten what she must look like. No wonder the SWAT team had looked at her the way they had. She gave her friend a smile of gratitude.

"That would be wonderful."

She started to pick up one of the cloths, but Angela swatted at her hand away. "Let me. Lord knows you've been through enough today."

She made a dismissive sound, but Angela persisted, giving her a level stare. "You saved my life today. Let me do this, it's the least I can do. Please."

Brennan relented and surrendered to her best friend's ministrations. She took no offense as Angela first donned a pair of latex gloves, it was simply protocol. Besides, not all of the blood and tissue was hers anyway. Because of her own open wounds she made a mental note to have the source's HIV status checked and remove any doubt even if she was almost certainly safe. She just wasn't betting her life on it. With some effort she pushed away thoughts of the dead grandfather. He might still be alive if she had not encouraged him to tag along, yet, on the other hand, his granddaughter was alive and free. She knew she would have to wrestle with that at some point, but for now she tried to focus on the immediate…

Angela washed her exposed arm, and worked her way up to her shoulder and neck. She felt herself starting to relax almost against her will.

"He'll be ok, you know," her friend said softly.

Some times Angela had an uncanny ability to know exactly what was on her mind. Although it ought to be pretty obvious in this instance, Brennan admitted to her self. After all, Angela had been in the corridor too.

But instead of just accepting it she had to question it, "You can't know that."

Angela tried to strike a lighter tone, "Come on, sweetie, this is _Booth_ we're talking about. You know… smart, tough, brave. Not to mention good looking." She flashed a conspiratorial smile. "I'm not quite sure how that last one helps here, but it can't hurt, can it?"

In spite of herself, Brennan had to chuckle at that. But then she sobered, thinking about the list of attributes. "Let's say that I provisionally accept your analysis…" she began.

Angela smiled at her encouragingly as she rinsed the cloth in one of the pans. Neither one of them made notice of the now red-tinted water.

Brennan finished in a lower voice, "It's precisely the 'brave' part that I'm afraid will get him killed."

Angela made a shushing sound and she patted Brennan's hand. "Don't get yourself in a tizzy. He's been around the block a few times and knows how to take care of himself. He'll be careful."

Brennan started to argue but Angela interrupted her, "Hold still now, I'm about to get your face." The expression on her face brooked no argument. She sighed and gave in.

It t felt so soothing. She closed her eyes and relaxed. Then remembered the last time someone had done it…

She suddenly sat up with a start, her heart pounding. She startled Angela in the process. "I… I'm sorry… I need to do my own face." As she took the cloth from unresisting fingers she avoided her friend's questioning gaze.

Angela sighed in her disappointment, but Brennan just couldn't bring herself to explain her behavior. It was just too much, just as it had been on Saturday, though in some ways this was worse.

Angela would have to settle for rinsing out the cloths and trading out fresh ones.

Brennan soon reached the point of diminishing returns. She would be heading to a hospital soon enough where a surgeon would have to remove the shrapnel in her leg, probably after an x-ray. And they would be checking her other lesser wound for glass – the rest of the cleanup may as well wait. Her hair was hopelessly fouled anyway with blood and slowly desiccating tissue which had become like glue.

She gave her friend a rueful smile, "I don't think there's any more to be done outside of a proper shower." The lab actually had one, but she had nothing to change into, and she wasn't really looking forward to hot water opening up the various cuts yet anyway.

Angela grinned back at her before she took her idea and ran with it…

"Or several hours in a nice hot bubble bath with candles, soft music, some wine…"

"Oh yes…" Brennan breathed. She closed her eyes and sighed. Bubbles weren't normally her thing but the image conjured up by Angela's words was pretty compelling…

But then her friend had to spoil it by adding, "… and someone special to share it all with."

Brennan could practically hear the knowing leer in her voice. She opened her eyes to see Angela's wide-eyed 'innocent' expression, which was spoiled within two seconds by a smirk.

Brennan swatted her arm and groaned.

Angela said, "See? I made you smile. That means my work here is done." She stood up to leave. "I'm going to see how well our two boys are playing with the other children."

Brennan reached out and touched her hand, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she dimpled.

But once Angela had departed her half-suppressed fears for Booth returned full force, having been only temporarily at bay.

To distract herself from them she laid back and resorted to her old friends… where others might count sheep, she counted bones. First she listed them to herself, all two hundred and six, in order of connection, all the way down to the very smallest bones such as the distal phalanges and even individual carpals. Her only shortcut was allowing for bilateral symmetry. Of course even with stopping to list the notable processes, tuberosities, foramens and other features of the major bones it was child's play. Then she worked her way through them in alphabetical order, which was _not_ how she had first learned them. Having mastered that she tackled the much harder task of listing them in reverse alphabetical order…

_Zygomatic_

_Vomer_

_Ulna_

_Triquetrum_

_Trapezoid_

"Wake up!"

Angela was sitting on the edge of the couch and shaking her.

Brennan groaned and rubbed her eyes. She couldn't believe that she'd actually dozed off. The short nap left her disoriented. Then a panic gripped her, and she started fully awake…

"_What's wrong?"_


	30. Rendered

**A/N**

**Right now I am thinking there will be two more chapters after this one; however what is now the final one could end up splitting again. There _may_ also be a short epilogue posted as a separate chapter.**

**This one is about 5,700 words.**

**Here we go…**

_Monday, Jeffersonian Institute Medico-Legal Laboratory_

"Wake up!"

Angela was sitting on the edge of the couch and shaking her.

Brennan groaned and rubbed her eyes. She couldn't believe that she'd actually dozed off. Then panic gripped her, and she started fully awake…

"_What's wrong?"_

"Nothing, silly. It's over. They've given the all clear, and we can get you out to the paramedics now. It's time we got you properly taken care of."

Her heart rate slowly settled down. She didn't know if the lingering visceral fear had come simply from being jarred awake or if she'd been starting to dream. If the latter, she was glad she didn't remember the details.

Angela helped her get up and reseated on the improvised wheelchair, then pushed her out of the office. Brennan presumed that 'all clear' meant all of the terrorists had been dealt with. She checked her cell phone and was relieved to see that service was back. She hit the speed dial for Booth…

"_You have reached the voicemail of_ …Seeley Booth, FBI... _To leave a message…_"

Frustrated, she left a brief and thoroughly unsatisfying message, "This is Brennan. I wanted to make sure you were ok. Call me." There was no way to tell if his phone was off or if it was busy. It might not even be on him.

She checked with Angela just in case, "Has anyone heard from Booth?"

Angela shook her head, "No. But you know he must be incredibly busy right now. Don't worry. I'm sure no news is good news."

Brennan sighed. She would just have to try to be patient. Before heading to the designated staging area for medical care, she asked Angela to steer her to the restroom so she could pee. That neglected task taken care of, upon their exit she realized the population of the lab had declined again. She craned her neck to look around.

"Angela, where are the children? And what about Emily and Janice?"

While she was speaking, Hodgins and Zach came over.

Jack broke in before Angela could respond, "The cops took the kids away. DHR is going to take care of contacting the school and their families. As to the Pollards… they took a rain check on getting the proper tour of the lab that you promised them."

"Oh…" It took Brennan half a second to connect the last name with Emily and her mother.

A city policeman directed them back into the west wing of the museum, to the foyer of the smaller non-public entrance facing 14th Street which served the curatorial and administrative staff. People were being assisted there and also on the steps and sidewalk outside. When Brennan saw the bright sunlight of mid-day she experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance as she realized how little time must have actually passed. She checked her watch and it had barely been an hour ago when she and Angela first left to meet the Pollards. Her subjective clock expected it to be dusk outside for some reason.

Shrugging off her bemusement she paid more attention to her surroundings. Several crews of EMTs were providing assistance, and they had their hands full with injuries, many much worse than hers. Many victims were quietly sitting in shock while others moaned in pain. A couple howled and thrashed in agony. Some looked to have been injured by the bombs whereas others clearly had gunshot wounds. She wondered why the wounded were being brought here instead of simply being treated and taken right out the museum main entrance facing Jefferson and the Mall, but she dismissed the question, figuring they must have their reasons.

Only then did she notice that two prone victims were silent and motionless, shrouded in blankets through which blood had already soaked. It was a classic case of triage in action: the walking wounded had to wait, those severely wounded were helped immediately and given priority in transport, and the most hopeless cases shunted aside.

She knew that those already dead back in the vestibule of the main entrance, the Rotunda, and the Gallery still lay where they had been killed. For the moment they were no longer people but corpses, crime scene evidence to be preserved until properly photographed and catalogued.

After processing the sight of the people being treated, she noted the large number of heavily armed policemen scattered about looking grim, some armed with automatic rifles, others with shotguns. It was the proverbial case of the closing the barn door after the horses had already escaped, but it still made her feel safer. Anyway, follow up attacks _had_ been known to take place in other countries when emergency personnel were responding.

Classified as 'walking wounded', figuratively at least, Brennan was directed outside the glass doors where there was more organized chaos. At least out here there weren't any screamers, she thought. She finally got her turn, and described her injuries to the paramedic, who barely glanced at anything other than her leg. She got down on the concrete awkwardly with Zach's aid and started to lie back, but before her head could touch the hard surface Angela scooted down underneath her and made a lap to cushion her. Brennan looked up into her friend's face and smiled her appreciation… and missed the EMT's warning.

The sudden throbbing in her calf when he cut off the constricting leather belt caught her off guard. She very nearly passed out as the renewed blood flow seemed to strike a raw nerve with every heart beat. Her lower leg must have swelled against the belt more than she'd realized. She panted a bit and regained most of her composure, and was twice grateful for Angela's consideration in making a pillow of herself. She squeezed Angela's hand tight as the freckle-faced young tech superficially cleaned the deep wound and carefully re-bandaged it properly. And gave her a brief lecture…

"A surgeon is going to have to get that shrapnel out of there, I'm afraid. I wouldn't dare go in there even if they'd let me. Without an X-ray there's no telling how close it might be to a major vessel or nerve." He looked her square in the eye and warned her sternly, "Stay off it. You could really hurt yourself if you don't." The effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact he looked almost ten years younger than her, but she got the message.

"Don't worry, we've got her." Angela assumed responsibility for her with a warm smile and batted eyelashes, which somehow both irritated and comforted Brennan simultaneously.

He gave her a colored tag which apparently established her priority in getting transport to the hospital, and directed them down to the sidewalk and a bit further up the street to the queue for loading ambulances. Jack and Zach helped her limp down the steps with Angela hovering protectively and supervising, and then Zach ran back up and retrieved the chair for her. As he did they were all deafened by the roar of a medevac helicopter coming in low from over the building. Another was hovering in the near distance, apparently waiting to set down.

They had to wait along with several others as more seriously injured patients departed first. Fortunately the sun was not too hot, and there was even someone passing out water bottles as they checked transport tags. After asking to be seated on the soft grass instead of remaining in the awkward though invaluable office chair, Brennan used the opportunity to try to call Booth as she lay back, but again with no luck. As she hung up from leaving him another message updating him on her status and asking him to call ASAP, she overhead the conversation of two nearby African-American policemen, one a young patrolman in uniform cradling a pump shotgun, and an older, heavier one in plainclothes. She caught a glimpse of the gun and badge on his belt underneath the windbreaker. _Probably a detective._

She couldn't believe what she was hearing, and her eyes met Angela's. Apparently the cops thought no one was listening and were brutally frank between themselves.

"Hey Marcus, you see the front of the museum?" It was the detective talking.

The younger man responded, nodding, "Yeah, man. Lord, it's like a fuckin' war zone in there. ServiceMaster's gonna get some overtime for sure." He paused to spit on the grass. "Don't know about you, but I think the Marines or the Air Force oughtta get us some raghead payback on this one…"

The older one butted in, "I sure as hell hope so. I got a nephew who's a jarhead, one lean mean sonuvabitch. I oughtta call 'im. But did you see out front too? _Outside?_"

The younger cop nodded again, "Just a quick look. Holy shit." He spit again.

The detective nodded as well. "Damned straight. I just came from there. God damn, fuckin' EOD's shittin' little green apples. If those motherfuckers'd got inside with all that shit it coulda been a _real_ fuckin' bloodbath."

Brennan was utterly appalled. _Could have been a real bloodbath?_ She'd been listening with her mouth agape, eager for any information, but it snapped shut almost audibly. She was sitting up to give them a piece of her mind for their callousness when Angela beat her to it.

The artist practically bounded to her feet from where she'd been seated beside her on the grass. Jack and Zach simply watched the show from where they still sat, the former one on the grass and the latter in the chair which Brennan had vacated. He stopped spinning around to listen.

"Excuse me…" Angela's words came out half strangled and they didn't turn, not realizing she was addressing them.

"EXCUSE ME!" She found her voice. The men looked at her startled.

"Just what in hell do you mean 'coulda been a real bloodbath'?" Angela pointed at Brennan where she sat on the grass. "LOOK! Look at her! That's after washing off. She _already_ took a bath in it!" She was so angry she had tears in her eyes. People all around were looking in their direction.

Brennan thought the two men looked like they had just stepped in shit. From the ashamed looks on their faces they were probably already imagining their captain catching wind of their screwup.

The older one spoke apologetically. He seemed sincere in his chagrin as he looked both of them in the eye. "We're sorry, ladies. We honestly didn't think we were that loud."

That was enough for Brennan – her mind had raced ahead, thinking more about what else he'd said. What she wanted now was information, _why_ he'd said it.

"It's ok, Angela." Her friend backed off with her arms crossed, still clearly riled up. "Detective, I'm Doctor Temperance Brennan with the Medico-Legal Lab and these are my colleagues. Just what was that about 'EOD' out front?"

The men were so relieved she wasn't pursuing their earlier gaffe that they practically fell over themselves being forthcoming.

"Detective Leon Brown, ma'am, and this is Officer Jones. EOD is Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the 'bomb squad'. There was a second wave of about ten terrorists who were bringing in a bunch of bombs and explosives for booby traps. Looks like it was gonna be like one of those places in Russia where they rigged the whole place to blow. Scuttlebutt says it's enough to take down most of the building."

A shiver went down her spine in spite of the warm sunlight. _Ten_ more. It really could have been much worse. But they failed somehow…

"What happened?" She had to know.

"What happened? A fuc… , uh, a miracle. A sniper took most of 'em out right there on the front steps. The Feds have some guy who has business over here all the time, and he was on his way over this morning. Turns out he knew how to shoot too." He turned and pointed back up 14th Street past the Washington Monument, "Nailed'em from the far side of the Mall over there. None of the explosives ever made it in."

The younger cop chimed in, "There's supposed to be some kind of stink about him not waiting for the rest of his team, but I don't give a damn. If I find out who it is I'm gonna buy him a beer. Hell, make that a case."

_It had to be… _Angela's eyes met hers.

"Booth." They said it simultaneously.

The detective was puzzled by their exchange. She filled him in.

"It sounds like an FBI agent, Seeley Booth. He's my partner…"

The detective interrupted, "Partners. You FBI too?" He looked confused.

_Damn._ "No. It's a long story." He looked a little skeptical but said nothing.

She continued, "Anyway… as we were escaping we ran into him. I… I think we were the very last ones to see him on his way inside." Put that way out loud the words had an ominous ring to them. "I haven't been able to reach him since then, and I haven't seen anyone from the FBI to ask. Is there any way you can help us?"

"I'll see what I can do. I haven't seen any Feds on this side of the building either. If you'll excuse me." The detective stepped aside and used his radio for a minute before nodding and rejoining them. He motioned Marcus closer.

He addressed the young cop, "Lieutenant Hutchins has a couple FBI guys with him over there." He pointed up toward the corner of 14th and Jefferson at the front of the museum to a knot of uniforms and suits. "I told 'em we had an important witness they need to see. Go fetch a Fed and bring 'im back here."

Detective Brown took Marcus' shotgun while the other man trotted up the sidewalk. Meanwhile another uniformed cop showed up with some sort of message.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to take care of this." Brown and the new cop drifted several yards away.

Brennan ignored the soft conversation between Angela, Jack and Zach as she digested what she'd learned. _Oh my…_ She'd had no idea what hell Booth must have already been through by the time she'd seen him, and she was worried about the toll that more killing might have taken on him.

All of which meant she was already emotional when she looked up to see Marcus returning with Agent Williams in tow.

Williams was perfectly polite. It seemed he'd forgotten their little contretemps, which suited her just fine at the moment.

"Thank God, Dr. Brennan. Ms. Montenegro, guys," he nodded toward Hodgins and Zach. "It's great to see you all in one piece." His eyes flickered to her leg, but he said nothing about her injuries since it was clear they'd already been treated.

"What can I do for you?"

Given the circumstances she could be nice too. "Chad, I haven't been able to reach Booth. We last saw him when he was about to enter the museum from the Lab. Can you help us find him?" She glanced at Angela, "We just want to make sure he's ok."

"Sure, Dr. Brennan, give me a minute." He walked a few yards away and dialed his flip phone. While he was waiting for the answer to his query Brennan saw that he actually had the nerve to give Angela a look that could only be described as flirtatious. He was pathetic – but he was helping them willingly so she bit her tongue.

Williams' grin was cut short by something on the other end, and he went ashen.

Instantly Brennan got a sickly, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She tried to brace herself as the FBI agent slowly closed his flip phone and came closer.

He cleared his throat before speaking slowly, "According to my guy Booth went down taking out the last suicide bomber…"

Angela's gasp nearly drowned out Hodgins' muttered "Oh shit" to Zach. As to Brennan, she felt the word tilt crazily even though she was seated, and she thought she nearly passed out. The hollow empty feeling coalesced into a sharply defined black _hole_ inside her. Her ears were ringing with the sound of her pulse, and her face felt numb as she spoke.

"Is he…" She raised a hand to her mouth. She couldn't bring herself to finish the words.

Williams rushed out, "Oh no! They got the bomber before he could blow himself up. Booth was shot. He's already being transported to George Washington."

She nodded her thanks for the clarification as she blinked back the tears that were trying to form.

"I'm going to run and see what else I can find out for you, ok?"

"Thank you," she croaked. The words barely came out.

"No problem." Williams headed back up the sidewalk at a run.

Angela squatted beside her and put an arm around her shoulders and tried to reassure her, "He's going to be all right."

Brennan's rational mind pointed out that Angela had absolutely no basis for saying that given what little information they knew, but for once she didn't question it and instead simply hoped. Hoped that it was just a minor wound…

But Hodgins had to spoil it. "Crap. 'Went down' sure as hell doesn't sound like it was just a 'graze'."

"Jack!" Angela chastised him, but the damage was already done.

"Sorry." At least the entomologist had the grace to blush with some embarrassment before he and Zach sat down on the grass beside them.

None of them hardly breathed until Williams returned.

She couldn't believe she'd been so stupid in the corridor when they'd encountered Booth. She'd been so self-involved and blinded by her emotions… She had been so glad to see him that she'd failed to question what he was doing by himself. Of course she couldn't have asked him not to do his job, but why, oh why didn't she insist that he wait for backup?

Her self-flagellation was interrupted by William's return.

Williams' expression was even grimmer this time. He plunged right in and got it over with.

"Booth was hit multiple times in the abdomen. It's pretty serious."

Angela spoke. "But he was wearing body armor? What happened?"

Williams ran his hand through his blonde hair and shook his head. "I don't know… guess they had 'cop killer' ammo." He let out a sigh then grimaced as he saw Brennan flinch at his choice of words.

"Sorry. I have to get back now, but I'll let you know if I learn any more details. I promise."

Brennan was in a daze. She felt like she was choking. Hodgins of all people had to thank Williams. His bad news delivered, the agent practically fled.

She _hurt_ so badly. Her worry and fear were a physical ache covering her entire body except for the hole in her middle which seemed like it had grown even larger with Williams' latest revelation.

The little nagging voice that was the manifestation of her doubts and fears spoke up:

_You opened yourself up for this. You knew love only makes you vulnerable! And even if he's fine _this_ time, what about the next? There's only one way to protect yourself…_

She dismissed the insidious voice, but she had no real reply. It was right.

Zach's voice brought her partly out of it. He looked worried too.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth's prognosis can't be good. From what I know about severe penetrating abdominal trauma, shock is as great a contributor to mortality as hemorrhage."

"Zach!" It was both Jack and Angela.

Zach cringed, "Sorry."

Brennan looked at them oddly, numbly, wondering why they were getting on to him when he was simply stating the obvious truth…

Welcome distraction came in the form of an EMT who asked to see the transport tag given to Brennan at triage. She was only slowly coming back to full awareness of her surroundings, and Angela actually had to fish it out of her pocket and hand it to the man.

"Ok… looks like you're up. If you'll come with me, we'll get you on your way to the hospital shortly." He waited as her team helped her back into the office chair, then he led off with them following.

At the ambulance she let herself be assisted up into the back, and she lay down on the indicated gurney, saying nothing as the EMT strapped her in. Angela reminded her to keep her phone handy so they could update each other if either learned anything more about Booth. She could only nod. She was so tired…

She looked up when the EMT hopped back down to help wrestle another gurney up into the cramped rear of the vehicle.

The gurney's occupant was unconscious and his face was barely visible underneath the oxygen mask and a large bandage. The EMT hung an IV bag from a recessed hook in the ceiling of the van then started strapping the man in more securely.

Something looked strange about the outline of the sheet covering him…

The answer to the riddle came in the form of the other EMT returning with a bundle that was loosely wrapped in plastic. It was bloody on one end. He passed it up.

"Here ya go. They found us some ice in a break room. Don't know if it'll do any good torn off that way, but I guess that's what they pay the docs the big bucks for."

"Yeah, thanks." The EMT inside the ambulance took the bundle and tucked it under one of the straps beside the patient.

She put the shape of the bundle and what was _missing_ from under the sheet together.

It was a severed arm.

On closer inspection she could just make out fingers through the translucent plastic sheeting. Pink tinted melt water was dripping on to the floor.

The tech noticed her stare. "Uh… sorry about that. You shouldn't have seen that. We lost our ice chest on the last run." He looked down at the arm under the strap and grimaced. "That's the best way to make sure the limb makes it to the same place as the patient."

She still didn't say anything. Something about what the EMT had said tickled at the edge of her awareness.

The EMT reached back and slammed one side of the rear double doors shut. He called out to the driver, "Locking up back here."

It clicked, and she fully woke up. She was such an idiot...

"WAIT!" She practically shouted it. She'd been acting like she'd lost at least 50 points of IQ.

The EMT was startled and stopped with his hand on the other door just before it fully latched shut. She didn't blame him as he'd barely heard her speak at all.

"What hospital are we going to?" she demanded.

"Howard University Medical Center. Why?" He looked annoyed at the interruption.

"I _have_ to get to George Washington!" she insisted.

It was the most important thing in the whole world to her, and it really _was_ a matter of life or death.

Now he looked at her like she was crazy. "Lady, we can't do that. We gotta go where we're dispatched. The ER at GW and some of the other hospitals aren't accepting any more patients. We gotta go where there's still room."

"I don't care. Let me up." She started snatching at the latches of the belts holding her down but had trouble with the release on the last one.

This time he said it. "Lady, are you crazy?"

"LET ME UP!" She thought of another tack. She indicated the other patient, "You don't want to make him wait any longer than he has to, right?"

"Ok, ok!" He unlatched the last stubborn belt, opened both doors, and helped her down. "I don't know what you think you're doing. You shouldn't be driving, and anyway there're roadblocks all over the place and a curfew even if you did."

She nodded absently at the extra information. Angela and the guys were already walking away. Zach was pushing her chair.

"Hey guys, wait up!" She was reenergized for the moment, knowing what she had to do.

Brennan wasn't sure which one of them was the most surprised to see her emerging from the ambulance, but Zach arrived first by a nose. With the chair.

She settled back into it sideways, grateful she hadn't waited too late.

"What's up?" Jack asked as the ambulance doors slammed just behind her, and the van pulled away with its obnoxious siren blaring.

"I need a favor from each one of you."

"Sure!" "Shoot." "Of course!"

_First things first… _She looked up 14th to the corner where Williams had disappeared earlier into the tangle of uniforms and suits. She thought she saw a familiar profile.

"Push me that way. I need to get a ride to George Washington University Medical Center. That's where Booth is."

They were about half way there when the balding head began heading off in another direction.

"Zach."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Please go catch Director Cullen and let him know my problem and see if he can help us."

Zach ran off without even saying "Yes, ma'am."

She quit clutching her cell phone and instead put it in her pocket. It had been useless as a talisman after all. She needed a better one. She told Jack what she wanted.

"Aww, come on!" he balked.

She pinned him down with a glare. She could be merciless.

"You owe me. You owe _him_."

He nodded reluctantly and ran off too. He would just have to catch up if he didn't make it back in time.

That left only Angela.

"Ok, sweetie, what do you need me to do for you?"

The two more concrete tasks taken care of, Brennan's weakness returned. She sagged in the chair as her fears for Booth returned full force.

This was the closest she'd come in fifteen years to this topic, ever since she'd finally given up hope of her parents ever returning.

_Hypocrite! You know there's no 'man upstairs'!_ The negative voice was back.

_Shut up! _she replied to herself

She spoke in a very small voice, "I don't believe, but since Booth does…" Even now she couldn't quite bring herself to say it.

Her best friend in the whole world understood anyway.

"I'll say a little prayer for him," Angela replied gently.

Brennan nodded her thanks, blinking back the tears which were trying to gain another foothold. She felt like once she let them out there'd be no stopping them.

A minute later Zach returned with Cullen himself in tow. The Director's retinue included a handful of men with communications gear and an obvious security team.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan, glad to see you made it out. Don't you worry. We're making sure Booth is taken care of properly." He grimaced, and from old habit he ran his fingers over his scalp combing back hair that no longer existed. "He was our only casualty, and we're not going to lose him. You can count on it. Now Addy here tells me you need a ride?"

She nodded, unable to speak at first. His words which were meant to be reassuring only twisted the knife. She cleared her throat.

"My ambulance wasn't going to Booth's hospital, and I heard something about roadblocks. We _have_ to get to George Washington Medical Center." She looked up at him, directly in his eyes, willing him to understand her need.

But he was skeptical. He looked at her leg. "I understand, believe me, but you need to get that shrapnel out and get patched up. The ERs are filling up."

Brennan gave Zach a dirty look for saying too much. He quailed which made her feel bad, but only a little. She looked back to Cullen, "They've let me wait this long. Waiting just a little longer won't hurt anything."

The Director nodded, "I really can't spare any agents, but I'll see what I can do. You're right about the road blocks – you wouldn't be able to get there in your own car. Give us a minute." He backed off and motioned two of his men into a huddle.

She did her damnedest to eavesdrop but couldn't make out anything over the noise of more ambulances pulling out. One of the men spoke into a phone for a minute then shook his head and passed it to Cullen. The Director spoke calmly for a moment then became clearly aggravated. As the last wailing siren dopplered into the distance she could hear him finally…

"…I'm telling you one more time we just need to borrow one of your uniforms and a black-and-white for about half an a hour… Yes, yes I know you're not an ambulance service… No, she just has a minor injury…" Cullen's brow furrowed even deeper as he fumed while listening.

Finally he turned away and exploded. But she could clearly hear everything.

"…I KNOW you don't report to me, Sergeant, but I swear to God that if I don't get a little inter-agency cooperation here I'm going find a way to put my foot so far up somebody's ass I'm kicking tonsils! Let me speak to your Captain!" He waited impatiently, scowling as he grumbled to his men. Just as he started speaking again a helicopter flying overhead drowned him out.

Her hopes rose as his expression finally mellowed and he nodded toward his aides. The rotor noise faded away in time for her to hear him finish. What she saw and heard almost made her break down…

Cullen looked her way, giving her what could only be described as a paternal smile. "…yes, that's right. She's his partner. I owe you one."

She regained her composure as he strode over to her chair and leaned down toward her. "PD should have a car over here in a few minutes. They know it's a priority." He touched her shoulder, "GWU is a Level One Trauma Center. They know what they're doing."

Still unable to speak, she covered his hand where it lay and patted it in gratitude.

Cullen stood up and removed his hand. "Agent Williams will keep in touch. Now if you'll excuse me, Dr. Brennan, I have to get back to work. This is a fresh crime scene after all."

"Thank you." Her voice finally worked again.

He waved a hand behind him in acknowledgement as he briskly walked away, back to the front. His team was caught off guard and had to trot to catch up.

Williams came back one more time while they waited for their ride.

"Your car will be here in just another minute."

Instead of leaving immediately he fidgeted for a moment before blurting out, "Just so you know… my source said Booth went out by medevac chopper." He paused, grimacing before continuing. "They were bagging him as they loaded him. I'm sorry." He rushed off again, clearly uncomfortable at having delivered the latest bombshell.

Angela gasped and sputtered, "But… I thought he's…" She couldn't continue. Tears started to form in her eyes.

Brennan felt the hole within her expand to a gaping chasm that threatened to swallow her up. She felt herself teetering on the precipice. But then she realized something…

Though the void was empty and lifeless it was at least tranquil, unlike that part of her still on the outside caught in the storm.

She tapped into it. And regained her detachment.

She pulled her hand away from Angela's which had reached out to grasp hers again. She was coolly analytical…

She guessed at Angela's concern and clarified Williams' news before Zach could. She marveled at how calmly she spoke. One might even say matter-of-factly. Her eyes were totally dry as she held forth…

"Agent Williams is not talking about placing Booth in a body bag. Here 'bagging" refers to the use of a flexible bladder, known as the 'bag', and a facemask in conjunction with an oxygen supply in order to manually perform artificial respiration. It is used in order to avoid resorting to mouth-to-mouth, which can't utilize supplemental oxygen anyway. The device also incorporates a valve in order to keep from simply recycling the deoxygenated stale air in the patient's lungs."

Angela looked at her strangely.

Brennan totally understood.

She no longer sounded quite human. Not even to her self.

It was awkward squeezing everyone into the police cruiser what with the need for Brennan's leg to remain elevated, but Jack had just caught up again, and they all insisted on going. For once, Hodgins and Zach didn't argue about who got to ride shotgun.

The cop driving them made a few awkward attempts at small talk after first verifying that George Washington was indeed their destination, but the car's interior soon fell silent except for the occasional chatter on the radio. To Brennan it felt as if the void within her had expanded beyond her own body and drawn them all in.

From within the emptiness she came up with a flash of insight.

Her current predicament had its parallel in quantum physics. She felt like she was trapped as an unwilling participant in some sadistic real world version of one of the classic _gedanken_ experiments...

Like Schrödinger's cat in its box, Booth's state was indeterminate, neither dead nor alive. Rather, technically, he was _both_ simultaneously via superposition. Only when observed by her would his probabilistic wave function collapse into one actual state or the other.

_He's leaving you, just like everyone else you've ever loved…_

She had no retort, much less a rebuttal.

A short while later the seemingly interminable ride crammed into the back of the car, which still carried the faint whiff of last night's vomit, brought her another intellectual insight, one which she had never, ever expected…

It was utterly unnecessary for one to 'believe' in a God or an afterlife in some Heaven in order to acknowledge the existence of Hell.

She _knew_. She was already in it.

But she was wrong.

Hell was the hospital.

**A/N**

**Longer chapter, longer reviews please.**


	31. Reduction

_Monday Afternoon_

_George Washington University Medical Center_

The chaos of the hospital Emergency Room was but the external reflection of her internal state.

The tears finally came.

But then they dried when she fully embraced the void.

When she caught a glimpse of his battered and bloody body lying exposed on the table she no longer saw the man, no longer let herself see _him_.

Instead she just saw another skeleton.

Albeit one still encased in flesh. Meat.

And one which, for perhaps a little while, still had a pulse.


	32. Retrospect

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday, Early Evening_

FBI Deputy Director Sam Cullen walked the departing agents conducting the 'interview' out into the hall. He'd insisted on being personally present because this interrogation was so sensitive. The whole mess already had all the markings of turning into a real witch hunt. Once the men were well on their way to the bank of elevators he ducked his head back through the doorway.

"Thanks guys." The techs nodded and continued packing up their A/V recording gear.

His next words were for the uniformed Bureau security guard on the door.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. I've got to make a few calls, and I'm going to stretch my legs for a bit."

"Yes, sir," the guard acknowledged.

Cullen was all to glad to be up and about as the last hour and a half had been pretty grueling. Additionally, his left knee had been starting to ache as was its wont when immobile too long, and the borrowed and inadequately cushioned cheap government-issue waiting room chairs were making his ass sore. At least security was a helluva lot tighter in a federal facility.

He took a fairly leisurely stroll to the waiting room at the far end of the floor, enjoying the flexing of his stiff joints as he headed toward the coffee machine. Before he made himself a cup he called his administrative assistant, Alice, on his cell phone.

After having her update him on some of the other irons he currently had in the fire with respect to the multiple investigations, he gave her one more task.

"Oh, one more thing… Go ahead and call over to Goodman's office at the Jeffersonian and let 'im know we're ready for Doctor Brennan… That's right, thanks." He closed the flip phone and slipped it into the holster on his belt.

He poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup and added a single sugar. Normally he took cream but he absolutely could not abide the powdered "non-dairy" crap which was the only thing available. Back in his own office he splurged on the real thing out of his own pocket, but here it was straight-up lowest bidder Uncle Sam institutional.

As he'd expected, about the only thing positive about the damned coffee was that it was hot.

Instead of immediately returning he decided to take a lap around the floor to further work his knee and glutes. His thoughts turned again to Doctor Temperance Brennan. Of course his opinion of her had started to turn around after her assistance with the tainted bone graft that killed Amy, but now he was really starting to see why Booth had ultimately come to like working with her.

She was smart, loyal, and tough.

He'd always known she was smart, at least book smart, very talented albeit a pain in the ass. But she went beyond that…

Exhausted and injured as she was from the events earlier in the week, she'd still been a real trouper. She'd been under doctor's, and Miss Montenegro's, orders to get some rest on Tuesday. Then Wednesday, after an initial interview first thing, she'd gone with a team over to the still sealed off Museum and done a complete walk through multiple times of what she'd done on Monday for the reconstruction of the crime, including what had happened in the exit of the IMAX which was unfortunately one of the few blind spots of the security cameras. Then this morning she'd come back to the Hoover Building for a more in depth interview to help the CSI guys integrate everything.

An excellent observer by training, the lawyers at Justice were already licking their chops over her future role as one of their star witnesses. Her memory was killer, much better than the usual eye witness's, and she'd both had a glimpse of the two bombers _and_ a front row seat to the murder of Office Travis and a couple visitors. And she was the survivor closest to the original blast, at least who had remained conscious. Between her testimony and the mountains of video from the cameras the prosecution case against the two surviving wounded terrorists was going to be a slam dunk. Once their wounds had been patched up and they'd been wrung dry of any intel, the bastards were going to get the needle under the federal death penalty, even the one in the van who was not known to have directly killed anyone. Conspiracy was covered in the anti-terrorism statutes.

As to loyal, he had to chuckle at that one. Disgusted himself, he'd apparently aired a little too much of the Bureau's dirty laundry in front of her with respect to that asshole Gregory. When he'd escorted her back down to the lobby before lunch earlier today he'd been distracted by one of his assistants, and the next thing he knew she was accosting Gregory himself as he came in the front door, reading him the riot act.

It was a damned good thing he'd caught up to her when he had because he could swear she was on the verge of hitting him with one of her crutches. That was absolutely the last damned thing he needed, but he could sure as hell understand the sentiment. After all, on Tuesday he'd had to fight off the nearly overwhelming urge to deck that SOB himself right there in Director Mueller's office for his "I told you so" about Booth.

Finally, as to tough… well in that hallway outside the IMAX she'd proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt, for all time as far as he was concerned. In keeping her head, together with the dead guard Travis she'd easily saved more than twenty people. He was already having paperwork drawn up for an FBI commendation. It wasn't exactly "service to the Bureau", but, dammit, he could pull the strings. After all being a Director should be worth _something_, and being able to award one that wasn't posthumous was a nice change.

As was inevitable, the news that an unarmed woman had taken out one of the terrorists had leaked. And the media were all over it, champing at the bit to find out who it was. Fortunately the Pollards had kept their mouths shut so far. So far she'd resisted his offer of a ride to the memorial service arranged by the Jeffersonian for Saturday, but it was just a matter of time before reporters were all over her. He'd just have to try again. He was going himself because an FBI representative had been requested and he'd be damned if that shit stain Gregory went.

Furthermore, when she'd caught wind of the video footage from the security cameras and tourists and audio from the radio transmissions that the Bureau's in-house CSI guys had synced up and assembled, there was no stopping her. She'd twisted his arm into showing it to her. All of it.

She really was tough. The only time he'd seen her cry was when Booth went down on the security cam video. Being black and white together with the crazy camera angle from high up near the ceiling, when Booth fell and only his legs were in the frame it looked like a Hitchcock film. Cullen wanted to kick himself because no one had prepared her for what she was about to see. He'd mistakenly assumed someone somewhere had explained that Booth had deliberately stood up to draw fire to give the SWAT team a shot. And he absolutely could not handle a crying woman.

He had to give her credit, though… she dried it up and quickly got back to business. He didn't even see her cry when he'd been able to duck into the ER at GWU late Monday afternoon.

But now, as he entered the last leg of his lap around the floor, he realized that perhaps it was too quickly, that she was wound too tight. After all there was a fine line between tough and brittle. He made a mental note to check with Goodman and see what kind of services the Jeffersonian was providing their employees. Surely they had grief counselors lined up, but the Bureau either employed or had on retainer the best shrinks in the country when it came to post-traumatic stress and survivor's guilt, not to mention dealing with the aftermath of having killed someone for the first time. The general public would be surprised if they knew how few agents had ever fired their weapons in anger, much less killed anyone. He was going to offer their services to Dr. Brennan.

Now only if she wouldn't be too damned stubborn to take advantage of them.

His lap finished, Cullen was now back where he'd started, in front of the guarded door. He had some more business to attend to before Dr. Brennan arrived and it wasn't all going to be pleasant. He nodded at the guard who opened the door for him. It was the first real chance he and Booth had to talk alone.


	33. Reprieve

**A/N **

**Sorry for the long delay. However, I have been working on this and parts of the next three or four chapters almost simultaneously, so they should start dropping sooner rather than later. I promise it will be worth it.**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday, Early Evening_

When Cullen reentered Booth's room he found the agent dozing. _Poor bastard._ However, all things considered, he looked pretty damned good considering he'd been hit four times. Although his vest had failed to completely stop the rounds only one wound had been truly life threatening. He imagined that this incident would spark a review of the decision not to rush HRT the latest military style armor with the heavy ceramic plate insert. But for the vest, however inadequate as it had proven to be, Cullen would have been certainly looking at a casket instead of a hospital bed.

The Spartan hospital room was barren except for the flower arrangement sent by his office and the Get Well card made by Booth's son. Cullen had been in contact with Rebecca, and he'd had an agent pick up the card. The kid would not have been allowed into ICU anyway, a good policy in his opinion… no point seeing your dad looking half dead and stuck full of tubes. They would visit some time tomorrow.

There was also just one other card, one for which he had absolutely no idea how it had got here. Booth's identity and location were being kept secret for now, but it was just a matter of time before it leaked. It was going to be a matter of public record shortly anyway.

As soon as Booth had been released this morning from ICU over at GWU Medical Center the Bureau had him transferred here to Walter Reed, both for the better security and the top notch experience in helping soldiers recover from gun shot wounds. After Booth had a couple of well deserved naps bracketing a late lunch, Cullen had accompanied the team that took his initial statement about his actions on Monday. It had taken a personal appeal to get special permission to grill him this soon, but fortunately the Chief of Surgery, a full bird Army colonel, understood the urgency of needing to gather every bit of intel of his observations of the terrorists while it still might be useful.

Other than his color still being a little off and clearly being dog tired, Booth didn't look too bad, at least with the sheet pulled up to his armpits. The only visible wound was the gash in his cheek. The fact it was held closed by those little adhesive steri-strips instead of proper stitches just seemed _wrong_ to Cullen, but it was supposed to help minimize scarring.

He certainly looked a hell of a lot better in the plumbing department, with significantly fewer tubes coming out of him than when he was still in ICU.

Cullen had been able to gradually brief Booth on what was now known about the attack, but only after his untainted testimony had been recorded at each step. In one sense his statement was window dressing as the assembled and digitized audio and video feeds from cameras inside and out, as well as radio traffic, was pretty damned definitive. The Bureau's crime scene A/V guys had worked around the clock and tricked out one of the conference rooms in the Hoover building with about twenty big plasma monitors controlled by a computer lash-up. Only a few very short sequences were missing. In conjunction with some of the higher quality video taken by tourists outside, and even a little inside the building, it practically looked like a Tom Clancy movie. But it was all too real.

Booth's beauty sleep would have to wait. Now there were a few things that needed to be settled once the cameras and microphones had been put away and the extra sets of ears gone. Booth clearly had a few questions he was saving, and Cullen himself had a couple things that had to be handled.

"Booth." Nothing. "Booth, wake up." Must be out harder than he thought. Just as Cullen was about to touch a blanketed foot his best agent finally stirred.

Booth blinked his eyes a few times then wiped the gunk from them with a hand, grimacing as the I.V. line tangled and tugged painfully at the catheter and ports taped to the back of his hand. He carefully shifted his position on the bed, mouth tightening with the effort before clearing his throat and speaking.

"Can you hand me that water?"

"Sure." Cullen pulled closer the wheeled tray table that the videographer had pushed aside earlier, and then he poured some more ice water from the larger jug into a small cup. He held the cup and the straw so Booth could sip.

"Thanks."

"Sure." However, at his nod Booth had to get in a shot.

"My other nurses are a helluva a lot cuter."

Cullen smiled briefly but didn't rise to the lame crack. He wanted to be gone before Brennan and her squints arrived. Their visit should cheer _all_ of them up.

"Colonel Barrett is going to have my ass if we don't get out of here and let you take a nap. Here's our chance to talk, so ask away." He knew where at least some of this was probably going based on the earlier interview.

Booth nodded himself before quietly asking his first question. Instead of looking at Cullen's face it appeared he was looking at his sheet covered toes.

"Forty-two dead and at least that many seriously injured…" He looked up, catching him squarely in the eye. "How many of those were killed by the first bomb?"

Cullen sighed, and pulled one of the shitty chairs closer to the agent's bed. The real part of Booth's question was the unspoken flip side – how many had died from the actions of the group which slipped past him. Cullen turned the chair around backwards and straddled it before answering...

But Booth wasn't finished. "And how many of _them_ might have made it if they'd got help right away?"

_Crap._ Cullen knew this was going to be a sore subject. Booth was still beating himself up for not having been Superman and whacking the second bomber and the first batch of shooters before they'd made it inside. He needed to snap him out of it.

He shook his head. "Not now. You'll be able to read the report yourself soon enough."

But Booth was having none of it. "Don't give me that crap. There must already be a preliminary estimate." Booth's anguished eyes bored into his, "I _have_ to know."

Cullen wasn't going to help him play that game. "Sure…" He hardened his voice, "But I'm not going there, not today, and I'd suggest you do the same."

Booth opened his mouth to object, but Cullen barreled right over him.

"You need to cut this crap out before you drive yourself crazy with second guessing. You did everything humanly possible. It may not seem like it to you now, but there just really wasn't any time. The video doesn't lie." He softened his voice again, "I know you don't believe me at the moment, but when you're ready let me know and you can see the video for yourself. Maybe I can get an edited copy brought over here tomorrow afternoon."

The other man only nodded reluctantly, but at least he nodded instead of arguing. It would have to do for now. He knew Booth would keep picking at that scab, but with the right help, perhaps from a two-by-four, he'd leave it alone and give it a chance to scar over.

It was time to change the subject, but Cullen wasn't quite ready to go where _he_ needed to just yet…

"Any other questions I can answer?"

"Yes. What about Gregory?" Booth was looking him straight in the eye again, his features composed but wary as he cut to the chase.

_Damn_. It was before he intended. _May as well get it over with…_

"As you might expect, the man is a little pissed. And he is a vindictive SOB. It'll be another week or so before the preliminary report is released, but the handwriting is on the wall. It's all over but the shouting as far as the essentials and the primary conclusions. You're in the clear, totally exonerated by everything we've learned, and I don't think there was anything in your statement to derail that. The guy you wounded in the van cracked pretty easily, and there were detailed diagrams in their gear showing their exact plans for rigging the theater, which doors their guy inside Maintenance had jammed, and where they would post their sentries. Even a copy of the IMAX schedule. It was going to be every bit as ugly as you guessed."

Booth nodded without saying anything, but he relaxed slightly. Cullen continued.

"Now as to precisely what happened when you went inside… well rumor has it the guys in the tactical community have practically come to blows arguing over it, but I don't have a dog in that fight. As far as I'm concerned all that counts at the end of the day is that you didn't lose a hostage. That seems to be the general consensus at the top, and I do mean the _top_."

Booth's expression became pained again, "'Didn't lose any…'? What about the woman and her son? I… I think they may have been killed as _bait…_ just for _me_." He grimaced and looked away.

Cullen was grateful to have one more bit of good news for him, sad as it was.

"You can rest easy about that one. That was definitely not your fault; one of the security cameras caught all of it."

Booth looked right at him again expectantly. "So… what did happen?" he asked softly.

Cullen scratched his scalp and wiped his mouth. "They had just rounded one of those corners in that hallway when that woman you found actually jumped on one of the terrorists as a distraction so her son could make a break for it. Tough lady"

Now it was his turn to grimace. "But apparently she must have telegraphed her move because he caught her in the teeth with his rifle butt and had time to shoot the kid too. Then he pulled the woman to her feet and executed her as an example to the others." He sighed. "God rest their souls."

Booth agreed "Amen." It was clear that he was torn by his sense of relief coming at the expense of someone else's tragedy.

Cullen knew better. He knew Booth did too, but it was worth saying out loud anyway. "I know it sucks, but sometimes you just have to accept your breaks… regardless of how they come." Not that that really made it any better.

Booth nodded reluctantly, but his expression lightened somewhat.

Cullen gave him something else to ponder.

"For what it's worth, at least they were the last ones to die. The other SWAT elements took out the last terrorist in the Gallery, taking their cue from you. They moved in aggressively while he was still dribbling out hostages to serve as cover for your two terrorists, so he never had a chance to shoot any of the last ones like you warned about. Our guys only wounded him, and since he's a Saudi national our friends from Langley flew him back to the Kingdom where he's singing like a canary."

They sat together in silence for a moment before Cullen stirred again, shifting awkwardly on the crappy chair. He loved the FBI. Hell, his wife said only half in jest that she sometimes felt like number two after it. And, truth be told, after all his years of hard work he loved being one of the big dogs as a Director. He _liked_ being in charge, and he knew he was good at it. He wasn't counting on it, but he might even have a shot at FBI Director Mueller's chair in a few years under the next Administration.

But this was one of those times he hated his fucking job. It was time for the other shoe to drop.

He cleared his throat. "Booth…"

The agent looked at him again, waiting.

"I said you were exonerated… but I didn't say you were off the hook."

Booth kept his poker face, but his eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"Like I already said, the official narrative of the attack and the response is shaping up even though the investigation into the larger conspiracy continues. As to your set-to with Gregory, well the fix is already in with regard to that too. Everybody knows Gregory fucked up with a bad call in telling you to stand down, made worse by forcing you into insubordination instead of listening to you. But you _did_ disobey a direct order, however justified you were, so that presents a problem that's hard to completely sweep under the rug. Believe me, with the knives already coming out in Congress over the CIA and the Bureau's own Counter-Terror side both missing this plot, Director Mueller would love nothing more than to make this sordid little sideshow go away. It's the only thing marring what's otherwise the only positive aspect of this entire mess."

He paused and checked Booth's expression. Totally focused. He continued…

"Gregory's org chart is being reshuffled and a new slot being created under him specifically to insulate him from operational details. It's being done in a way that he can save face, hell, almost call it a promotion for _himself_, but he, and everyone who's anyone, know he's actually being de-nutted. Problem is he's connected, and won't take it quietly unless he gets his pound of flesh, namely your ass."

"So… what's the damage?" Booth asked quietly.

"Well I'm sure the bastard would love to get your badge, after all you publicly embarrassed him…"

Booth interrupted with a bitter laugh, "Ha. I think he'd be more embarrassed if I'd listened to him."

Cullen merely acknowledged that obvious truth with a nod. "…but the man's savvy enough to know he can't argue with success, so don't worry, that's not gonna happen."

Neither Mueller nor the President would allow the hero of the hour to get knee-capped that way. They knew the people wouldn't stand for it.

He responded to the face Booth made when he'd said 'success'. "Yes, I said 'success' and I meant it. I'm not going to argue about that again." He gave Booth a stern look, "Are we clear on that?"

Booth sighed, "Ok."

"Good. But I'm not quite done yet." This next part was where he had the urge to hold his nose…

"Some time in the next several weeks you are going to receive the FBI Medal of Valor, probably in the Rose Garden…" He ignored Booth's muttered "I don't want a damned medal" and continued himself. "… and at the photo op you are going make nice with Gregory and shake hands with him for all the cameras to prove there're no hard feelings, it was all a big misunderstanding, and that we're all one big happy fuckin' FBI family."

"Like hell!"

Cullen had to nip that sullen shit in the bud for everyone's sake, as much as it pained him. He shook a finger at Booth.

"Now you shut up and listen to me. You don't know the stakes involved, all the back room politics." Hell, he wished _he_ didn't. "That's the price you pay for dodging the 'insubordinate' and 'loose cannon' charges that would have effectively ended your career."

Surprised by his forceful response, Booth lost most of his defiance. But that wasn't quite all of it...

"There's one last thing. The arms locker in your SUV has already been cleaned out, and all of your special weapons secured as evidence for the continuing investigation. However, even once you're back in the saddle you won't be getting them back."

"Why?" Booth was more subdued now, resigned even. _Ah shit..._

"Because you won't be needing them any more. A few weeks after you get your medal, once the press attention has died down, you will quietly and 'voluntarily' resign from the HRT program for 'personal reasons'."

There, it was done. Now he felt the need to go take a shower.

For a long moment there was silence. Booth's jaws clenched and unclenched, and his eyes wouldn't quite meet Cullen's.

"I'm really sorry, son. It was the best I could do for you."

Booth looked at him again. "I guess I know that. I knew there would have to be a price, and it's sure as hell better than being officially reprimanded or fired, but still…"

Still… it had to hurt. It stunk to high heaven. "Yeah… I know."

Silence dragged out again until Booth broke it this time.

"You know, getting a medal somehow just doesn't feel right, like I'm a fraud. So many people still died…"

Cullen jumped right on that.

"You're going to be gracious accepting that medal because people _need_ to honor their heroes." He continued before Booth could argue, "Like it or not, the younger agents really look up to you now, and, for that matter, likely the next generation of potential new recruits as well. You are _not_ going to let them down. You single-handedly made the Bureau look good, almost in spite of itself, so that instead of all the focus being on us getting caught with our pants down around our ankles you've given them, hell, make that all of us, something to be proud of. And don't be so damned stubborn – in your ass-backwards way that's actually the opposite of modesty."

Booth looked thoughtful as he digested this last, until he finally nodded reluctantly. But he had one more protest.

"Still…when it comes down to it, I just feel like I had a lot of luck."

"Bullshit!"

The agent looked startled by his vehemence. Good.

"I don't remember exactly who said it, but somebody once said 'good 'luck' is nothing more than preparation meeting opportunity.'" He continued without pause, "Why were you there on the Mall near the Jeffersonian?" He answered the questions himself. "You were there because that's where you work. Why did you have a sniper rifle and know how to use it? Because you volunteered and then proved yourself good enough to carry one precisely because you wanted to be able to do something when the shit hit the fan. As far as I'm concerned, that all applies equally as well to Dr. Brennan and Officer Travis. When good people rise to the occasion I'll be damned if that is just 'luck'."

He softened his expression. "The only real 'luck', or outright miracle if you ask me, was the fact that the terrorists' inside man forgot to verify if the film was running on schedule."

Booth nodded at that. They'd already discussed how poor timing had lead to the IMAX being nearly empty instead of full to its capacity of 750 people and ripe for the taking.

Cullen finished, "…and the other bit of luck was your decision to take an early lunch." He winked at that, finally feeling like he could smile properly again.

But there was one more bit of sensitive business to attend to. He hoped Booth wouldn't be too damned touchy about it…

"Booth, as you know, before you get back out in the field after an incident like this, not only do you have to have a medical release, you also have to pass a routine psych eval, even for a righteous shoot."

Booth merely grunted an acknowledgement, the look of distaste on his face speaking volumes.

"Speaking as a friend, not your boss, I'd strongly suggest that in the meantime you avail yourself of whatever counseling you want, to talk it all out. You want to be able to pass that eval with flying colors." He could make it mandatory if he had to, but it was much better all around if he didn't.

But Booth balked. "I don't need to see a shrink." He said it quietly but resolutely.

_Shit._ "Now, dammit, don't be so hardheaded. I need you to be absolutely sure your head is screwed on right." Booth tried to speak, but he held up a hand. "Don't argue! I need you back on the job, but there's more to it than that. This is not all about _you_. Don't forget you have a partner who's seen the elephant for the first time. She's been through hell, and chances are she's going to need a strong shoulder to lean on. You can't provide that if you don't have your own shit straight. Comprende?"

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten about her." Booth's expression was downcast, suitably chastened.

_Good. So much for the stick, now for the carrot…_

"Well that's a good thing because she's going to be here in a few minutes to see you."

"Yeah?" Booth's face brightened up until he was wearing a big grin.

It warmed Cullen's heart to see him finally, truly perk up. He'd deliberately saved that bit of good news for after all the shit they'd had to wade through.

But Booth's grin slowly faded, replaced by a more thoughtful look.

"Back to the shrinks… I really don't need to see one because Father Jenkins is coming to see me first thing in the morning."

The priest served as the semi-official chaplain for the DC Bureau, which was still disproportionately Irish Catholic just like Cullen himself, a legacy from the Hoover era.

Cullen nodded slowly, "Oh. Ok."

Booth apparently had more to get off his chest. He spoke slowly, "No matter what you say, or even what I _know_, I still _feel_ like I let a lot of people down."

Crap. Booth still insisted on feeling guilty over things that couldn't be helped. Cullen had to step in at that. He overstepped his bounds as Booth's boss, and instead answered him as a fellow agent who also happened to be Catholic. "Booth, not batting a thousand according to some impossible standard is hardly a sin by anyone's definition, certainly not the Lord's."

Booth's jaw still jutted out obstinately. "That's not all. Before Monday I was… afraid… that when it came down to it I wouldn't be able to get the job done because I couldn't make myself just see them as targets." Cullen said nothing as Booth paused. "I had a little trouble with that, but the opposite turned out to be the case the longer it went on. I was pretty cool for the most part, but just beneath the surface I _hated_ them and killing the bastards felt _good_. I killed nine men on Monday, and I wish more than anything else in the whole world that I could have killed me six more…"

Cullen sighed. "But you _know_ it was the right thing to do in the circumstances. You were saving lives. It was hardly 'murder'." In spite of confusion about 'turn the other cheek,' Catholics weren't expected to be pacifists.

"Oh, I know that, believe me," Booth answered. His voice dropped as he looked down, "But too much of me enjoyed it. I thought I'd left that behind a long time ago."

Cullen objected, "I think the Lord knows the difference between a justified, righteous anger and true hatred."

But Booth wasn't quite buying it. "Maybe. I used to laugh at it, old school mumbo jumbo, but I think I understand why Wrath is one of the Seven Deadly Sins now." He looked at Cullen again, "Did you know I've been going to Mass every Sunday these last few years, but I haven't been to Confession in ages?" He continued without waiting for an answer, "I think I'm going to fix that tomorrow."

Cullen understood after all. He knew that accepting God's grace in order to forgive one's self was just as big a part of the sacrament as asking Him for _his_ forgiveness.

"I think that would probably be a good thing," he said gently.

Cullen let the companionable silence last a minute before _he_ broke it this time. He did have one final bit of good news he could share before he left. Well, perhaps _interesting_ was a better word. "Remember the big blonde woman hostage with the Asian daughter?"

"It's not like I could forget."

"It turns out she's five months pregnant, and…" He let the word drag out, enjoying the puzzled look he was getting.

"And what?" Booth demanded impatiently.

"She has asked for the identity of the agent who saved their lives. She just had the first ultrasound, and she and her husband are looking for a boy's name."

Cullen laughed at the priceless look of what could only be described as horror on Booth's face as that registered.

"Don't worry, your name hasn't been released. Yet. But it's just a matter of time until there's a little Seeley running around somewhere."

He chuckled again as Booth groaned, and he rose to go. Damned knee was stiffening up again. He flexed it a couple times while holding on to the back of the chair.

"Oh, one last thing, Booth…"

"Yes sir?"

"If you ever violate one of _my_ orders like that I'll have to kick your ass." He said it with another wink. "Now you make sure you do as your doctors say and hurry up and get well. I can't afford to have one of my best agents lying around on his ass all day."

He was almost out the door when Booth spoke again.

"Hey, Boss…"

He stopped and turned around in the doorway. Booth _never_ called him that.

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For everything."

He nodded, but then he waved it off, "No… no. Thank _you_, Seeley."

He left the hospital room without looking back.

On the way out he collected the agent serving as his driver from the waiting room and sent him ahead to fetch the car. While waiting under the covered entrance outside a decision gelled about something he hadn't even known he was considering. Booth had proven himself to be too good in a crisis to leave him sitting on the bench next time it hit the fan.

Cullen could do it. It fell totally within his authority, something he could do on his own on his side of the fence. He had some discretion with his agents. He'd wait six months or a year to let Booth settle down then he'd spring it on him.

For now he just made another mental note to himself: have Alice find eleven thousand dollars or so in one of the miscellaneous slush fund accounts hiding in the budget… enough to go shopping for a fancy rifle.


	34. Repartee

**A/N 5,600 words**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday, Early Evening_

After Cullen left, Booth felt increasingly eager and, if truth be told, nervous, about Temperance's visit shortly. It would be the first time he'd really see her and have a chance to talk since Monday in the corridor. To say that there was unfinished business between them had to be the understatement of the year.

He knew that his ordeal must have been terribly rough on her coming on top of her own. He wasn't completely sure but he thought he recalled seeing her twice while still in intensive care. The first time was a total blur between the pain and the medication, but he just remembered her crying and feeling terribly guilty for having made her so sad. He had another image of her which he thought was from a separate and later time. In that one she was not crying as he struggled to talk. He'd babbled before the effort had become too great, and only God knew what he'd actually said.

Cullen had filled him in on what she'd been through, and had had to do to survive and escape, and he simply wanted to hold her, and be held by her, more than anything in the entire world.

However, in spite of all his concerns, he was still so beat to shit and tired after giving his statement…

_Knock, Knock_

Booth started at the sound and blinked himself more fully awake. Against the odds he must have nodded off. A freckle faced red headed nurse was at the door, her fist still on the jamb. She was one he hadn't seen before.

"Now they can't stay too long because I have orders to make sure you get a good nap then dinner so we can get you up for a little walk later, but you have some visitors who are very eager to see you."

His heart was suddenly pounding and he smiled in anticipation…

But the smile faltered slightly as Angela and Hodgins entered the room, the former carrying a ridiculous balloon bouquet, and the latter a messenger bag on his shoulder. _Crap_. Happy as he was to see them he was disappointed he wasn't going to have her all to himself. He should have known better.

Of course Angela caught the look on his face.

"Don't pout. She and Zack will be here in a second," she said with a warm smile. Again he appreciated her bubbly personality. Angela shoved the strings into Hodgins' hands and advanced to the bed where she bent and carefully gave him a hug which he returned as best he could. When he'd been discharged from ICU he'd lost a bunch of the lines and whatnot, but he was still tangled up more than he cared for. Hodgins tied the balloons to the back of the lone visitor chair against the far wall.

As Angela stood back up she beamed at him, "So how's our favorite hero?"

He groaned a little at that. "About as well as can be expected I suppose. And drop the H-word, please. You know I was just doing my job," he added tiredly. _Former job that is_. He was not exactly looking forward to some of the attention that Cullen warned him about. He just wanted to be left alone to heal.

Angela started to respond, but he didn't hear a single word as Brennan entered the room. He started to smile again in reflexive pleasure, but it was completely obliterated a split-second later as the fact Zack was pushing her in a wheelchair sank in. His heart gave a lurch at the sight of her leg elevated in some sort of black Velcro-ed immobilizer boot.

"How bad is your leg?" he demanded as Zack parked her to his left near the foot of the bed.

"I'm fine," she grumbled, looking back over shoulder up at Zack.

Booth gave the bedside tray table a push so he could have an unimpeded view of her and it rolled a few feet away. He let out a small grunt as the tensing muscles produced a small spike of pain that quickly went away… or at least back down to the current noise level.

A still wrapped bowl of pudding left over from lunch went with the tray. He saw Hodgins' eyes follow it, and he gave the entomologist a scowl before turning his attention back to more important things.

Angela ignored the byplay between the two men and dissented, "You're under doctor's orders to stay off your leg as much as possible for the next few days." She looked at Booth, "She was so tired she wasn't using the crutches properly on the long walk up here…"

"Angela, I'm right here." Temperance muttered, definitely a little annoyed with being talked about.

Booth could see a pair of crutches leaning against the wall through the doorway.

"And so we borrowed one of the hospital's wheel chairs," finished Zack. Apparently he wasn't quite through tattling on his mentor. The gobbledy-gook came out in a rush…

"Doctor Brennan was very lucky with her injury as the embedded shrapnel completely penetrated the gastrocnemius and then the soleus all the way through to its anterior surface and the enveloping fascia. It nearly exited the posterior compartment close to the proximal juncture of the tibia and fibula, and it was less than a centimeter from damaging either the popliteal artery or the tibial nerve. The probability of severing one of them was significant if the shrapnel had continued migrating after the initial trauma."

Zack paused for a breath then must have noticed his expression. He smacked his lips in exasperation and gave Booth a pointed look.

"Translation: Hemorrhage or paralysis could have been the result." Zack paused for a half second then rolled his eyes, adding slowly as if speaking to an idiot child, "In other words it could have been _real_ _bad_."

That aggravated Booth, and he protested, "I got the gist of it!" _More or less._

Zack only gave him a look that was somehow simultaneously skeptical and patronizing.

"Honest!" _Damned squints._

Zack had one more shot, "She is quite obstinate and not a very good patient." He sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. "Somehow I imagine she's not the only one."

But Booth forgot him as he laughed out loud at the aggravated look Temperance gave her assistant because it reminded him so much of how he must look when he, Booth, was willing _her_ to shut up. His eyes watered as it hurt deep in his middle, but it was worth it.

He gasped, "You just can't find decent help anywhere these days."

That earned him a sour look which gave way to a shy flicker of a smile before her expression reverted to one that was all business. She started to open her mouth, but Angela spoke first, in a teasing tone. _Damn._

"Zack, you said 'obstinate' like that's a bad thing..." Then she followed through in a quieter voice, "Some of us wouldn't be here if it wasn't for 'obstinate'."

That shut up everyone for a moment.

Fortunately Angela broke the somber mood the she certainly had not intended to evoke. She spoke brightly.

"Besides, we would have never got to the right hospital Monday afternoon, would we?"

Zack practically fell over his feet to play along. "Oh yes. Agent Booth, you should have seen the look on the face of the EMT she made let her out of the ambulance. She even made Director Cullen personally obtain a ride for us."

Booth smiled at Bones with renewed appreciation as the others chuckled.

"Then she browbeat _me_ into digging through fresh bloody medical waste to recover that belt buckle of yours. Eesh." Hodgins made a face. "I prefer my bodily fluids thoroughly desiccated, thank you."

Booth had totally forgotten about his belt, but then he forgot about it again as she called his name for the first time.

"Booth…"

He turned back to find her eyes upon him. They were so beautiful even when troubled.

"How are you doing?" she asked carefully.

"Much better, obviously." To prove it he gave her his very best smile. The corners of her mouth quirked upward in response, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. They seemed vaguely haunted, proof that Cullen was right about her having been though hell herself. _Crap._ As much as he wanted her in his arms right now he'd just have to be patient a little longer. But he was confident he'd get her to warm up. That didn't stop him from damning their circumstances however. Aside from the presence of the squints, she was still several feet away in her chair which frustrated him because his gut told him that a touch was all it would take and here he was stuck in this fucking bed.

At least he knew in his bones that Angela would get rid of the others at some point so they could talk privately.

He realized that he was still staring at Temperance, trying to read her...

"And…?" That was Angela, impatient for some details.

At the interruption Temperance broke their eye contact, her eyes darting away from him and toward her friend as if grateful for the excuse. _Be patient._

He let out a small sigh and turned fully to Angela himself. He pointed to his cheek without touching it. It was still tender.

"Here's the short version: This itches, my right butt cheek alternates between stinging and itching, the tinnitus in my ear has almost completely faded, thank God, although there may be a little permanent hearing loss, and my whole middle is sore where they split me open and where the vest bruised me. It hurts if I breathe too deeply or forget and try to sit up or bend too suddenly in spite of the wimpy painkillers I'm on now, but the infernal itching from the damned morphine they gave me was finally gone this morning so I guess that tradeoff was worth it. And, oh yes, I'm still hooked up to too many tubes, but I'm supposed to lose a few more first thing in the morning." He wasn't looking forward to having the two drains pulled. He'd peeked under the sheet and just the thought of just what they were and where they went _inside_ made him a bit queasy.

He gave Angela a big smile so she wouldn't take his complaints too seriously. After all it sure beat the hell out of pushing up daisies. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that Temperance was staring at him intently while he wasn't looking directly at her.

"Get any sponge baths yet from cute nurses?"

Booth turned to Hodgins who stood at the right side of the bed, arms crossed on the bedrail. It was clear he was just being a smartass with the question.

"Twice at George Washington," he half whispered conspiratorially.

"Cool." The bug man leaned closer, obviously intrigued now. He must not have seriously expected an answer in the affirmative.

Booth confided, "Both times it was a cute blonde nicknamed Sam..."

Angela cleared her throat. The look of disbelief on her face was priceless. He winked at her with his left eye which he thought Hodgins couldn't see. He couldn't see Temperance to tell her to play along, but she'd get it in a second.

Hodgins nodded eagerly for him to continue. "Now that's what I'm talking about." He was completely oblivious to the sound of Angela clearing her throat again more vigorously.

Time for the punchline…

"It was 'Sam' as in Samuel, not Samantha."

"Gah!" Hodgins shook his head disgustedly. "Way to disabuse a man of his vicarious pleasures. Now I've got an image I can't get out of my head."

Booth laughed. One more, just to rub it in… "I never thought I _wouldn't_ mind another guy handling the package, but believe it or not I just felt too crappy to care."

Booth gave him a shit eating grin even though it pulled at his cheek. He heard a snort from his left over the sound of Angela's laughter as Hodgins muttered darkly.

He and Sam had also shared another awkwardly intimate moment when the male nurse went to pull the catheter from his bladder but had failed to fully deflate the small balloon used to keep it from sliding out accidentally. If Booth hadn't been so weak he would have kicked the nurse's ass. However, that was one little story he was going to keep to himself.

"What?" Hodgins' grumbling was interrupted by Angela poking him in the shoulder.

"The papers?" She moved up to the bedrail as well and the shorter man scooted over to make room.

"Oh yeah." Jack reached down and lifted the flap of the messenger bag he was wearing. He reached in and pulled out a short stack of newspapers which he handed to her. She picked out one and handed it to Booth.

He grimaced as he took it. It was Tuesday's Washington Post featuring a dramatic photo of a DC cop carrying a bloody little girl, the kind that won Pulitzers, under the uncharacteristically sensational banner headline "Terror on the Mall". He'd learned more than he wanted in his earlier statement and interview, and had deliberately _not_ turned on the TV in the room here even though the ICU at GWU had not had one.

Angela noticed his expression and grabbed the folded news paper, turning it over. "Sorry about that. Below the fold. No bad news there." She gave him an encouraging smile as she handed it back to him.

There was a rather dramatic photo of him standing beside the SUV with the PSG-1 half raised to his shoulder and a stern look on his face. He was easily recognizable even though it was a little grainy probably due to being enlarged. He was still wearing his tie and the jacket of his suit.

He shook his head. "So much for a future in undercover work." He read the caption aloud, "A visiting tourist captured this unidentified FBI sniper in action on 14th Street near the Museum of American History." He laughed derisively. _Fucking dumbasses._

At Angela's and Jack's looks of surprise he explained, "Stupid reporters, damned fools don't know anything." He waved the paper at them. "This was taken when the first batch of terrorists had just got inside and I had nothing to shoot at. At this point I wasn't engaging squat."

"Well just so you're warned the Web is quite taken with the 'Hero Hunk'." Angela made the quote signs with her fingers, eyes twinkling as she said it. He groaned. "Seriously," she said. "You have your own fan sites, and the absence of a wedding ring in the photo has sparked lots of speculation. Personally I think you're now on the radar as America's Most Eligible Bachelor."

He sighed and pulled at his chin. "You know what? I think you're enjoying this far too much."

She said nothing. Instead her grin only grew broader.

"Here's the New York Post." Jack traded him the tabloid for the WaPo.

The Post carried the more lurid headline 'JIHAD at JEFFERSONIAN!' An inset photo showed the van in front of the museum, and when he unfolded the paper he could see that the full page cover photo was of him on the roof of the SUV looking through the scope. At least he was actually doing _something_ in this one.

Jack reached in a finger and pointed out two small blurs above and behind him in the photo. "These look like ejected shell casings. Apparently this photographer had a high enough shutter speed."

This one piqued his professional interest. He didn't realize he'd got off any of his back-to-back shots that fast. Of course that had only been possible because the rifle had a self-loading mechanism instead of a manually operated bolt. _Thank God._ There was no way on Earth he could have done what he did otherwise.

Jack drolly interrupted his reverie.

"I guess that accounts for _two_ of the one thousand three hundred and forty two rounds you fired."

"_What?"_

The other man grinned mischievously. "That's how many 'certified DC terrorist killer' spent cartridges are up for auction by various vendors on eBay."

Booth barked a laugh at that then gasped at that pain just below his ribs.

Concerned, Angela touched his leg, eyes wide. "Are you ok?"

It was a second before he could breathe again and speak. "It's alright. Still just a little tender in there." He looked at Jack again, "Those assholes better hope the crime scene guys find all of my brass otherwise the 'men in black' are going to hit eBay with a 'cease and desist' and a subpoena for names, then knock on lots of doors with search warrants. They'll be lucky if they get off with a good scare and a change of underwear instead of actual charges for fraud or tampering with evidence, theft of government property, et cetera."

Jack grinned back at him. "'Men in black'. Gotta dig that." Angela just smiled at her colleague indulgently.

"You two do me a favor?"

"Sure." "Anything."

"Will you guys drop these side rails? Not being able to stretch my legs a little has been bugging me. It's nothing urgent. I was going to wait for the nurse to come around again instead of buzzing her. But since you're here…"

"Are you sure?" Angela was uncertain.

"Come on, I feel like I'm in an overgrown toddler bed. I'm a big boy now."

She dimpled at that. "I guess you are." She gestured and Jack came around to his left. He and Angela fiddled briefly before figuring out the mechanism.

The independent third of the rails around his upper body and the elevated head of the mattress did not lower but that was good enough. With a loud sigh of satisfaction he snaked his left foot out from under the edge of the sheets and let his leg dangle for a moment below the edge of the mattress before pulling it back up, but this time he put his lower leg on top of the sheet. He'd been getting hot and simply untying and dropping the top of the ass-baring shitty hospital gown and pulling the sheet down some more off his chest hadn't been enough to cool off. Earlier the nurse had said a low grade fever after surgey was not uncommon.

"Thanks, guys."

"You're welcome. Anything else we can do for you?" Angela asked warmly.

Before he could think of anything Zack interrupted.

"Agent Booth, you were lucky too."

He looked away from Jack and Angela back toward Zack and Temperance, who had her nose buried in the contents of a clipboard. They had apparently used the distraction provided by the other pair to snatch his chart and start snooping.

"Hey!"

"You were very lucky too," Zack repeated before he entered lecture mode, with Temperance now watching him like a proud mom. Booth was ready to be annoyed, but he had not yet seen his new Army doctor. He'd only heard the overview of his condition and wouldn't mind learning more if the didn't get the attitude along with it. So he bit his tongue and listened.

"Even though your armor vest failed to completely stop any of the four rounds which struck you it succeeded in dissipating enough of their kinetic energy such that only the one penetrated the peritoneum into and through the abdominal cavity. The other three remained outside of the membrane of the peritoneum having lost more energy to the fibers of the vest for some reason, perhaps some variation in the manufacturing process of either the vest or the bullets."

Jack jumped in. "The battle of Dupont versus Dupont was almost a tie." He gave a small chuckle, clearly pleased with his own wit.

But not Booth. He gave Jack "the look", and this time it was _Zack_ who translated, patiently even.

"Dupont holds the patents for both the Teflon coating on the slugs and the Kevlar fibers of your vest." Zack then tried to give Hodgins the evil eye, which coming from him just wasn't very intimidating. "Do you mind?" He didn't appreciate the older man poaching on his dog and pony show if the pout and peevish tone were any indication.

Booth groaned and rubbed at his tired eyes. _God spare me from geek turf battles._

Zack continued, "The leftmost and lowest three rounds simpy lodged in the layers of muscle and fat of the abdominal wall."

"Fat?" It was Booth's turn to interrupt. "With all the crunches I do? Hardly." He almost slapped his abs in support of his denial but caught himself just in time.

But Zack wasn't fazed. "'Six pack' or no," he dismissed, "_everyone_ has some abdominal fat even if there is relatively little subcutaneously. I wouldn't complain if I were you."

He had to admit the kid had a point.

"Anyway… you are lucky that with your situation being semi-stable the ER staff took the time for a diagnostic CT and discovered that those rounds were shallow in spite of what were no doubt impressive looking entry wounds. Otherwise instead of the moderate right subcostal laparatomy which you received you would have been subjected to a full midline from the xiphloid process past the umbilicus down to the pubic symphysis. Recovery from that procedure is supposed to be _extremely_ painful."

Booth thought he got the gist but wanted to make sure. "Somebody? Anybody?"

Jack translated helpfully, "They didn't have to gut you like a fish."

_Ugh._ He shuddered at the image conjured up. Of _course_ there was more from Zack…

"It was also a good thing that it was the fourth round and not the third which penetrated because it looks like number three stood a very good chance of hitting the portal vein which drains blood from the digestive tract into the liver for filtering."

"What's the big deal? At least it's not an artery, right?"

"The problem is the large blood volume and the fact that portal vein repairs are difficult to effect for various reasons. There is an approximately fifty percent mortality rate for that injury, and it is quite likely you would have completely exsanguinated."

The clarification sobered him for a moment as he digested it, but then he distracted himself by latching onto Zack's very last word. _Gotcha!_ By now they knew how much he hated needlessly obscure words.

"A ha! 'Exsanguinated.'" He repeated the word again. "I bet you thought you got me, but you didn't. I know that one!" He even added for Temperance's benefit, "Better yet, I learned it on TV, and it _wasn't_ from a documentary." She responded to the smug grin he sent her way with a small one of her own that warmed his heart.

He turned to Zack and repeated the word again, emphasizing his distaste.

"Exsanguinated. Why in hell won't you people just say 'bled out' or 'bled to death'?"

It was _his_ turn to put his foot in his fucking mouth. He knew his mistake before the last word finished leaving it. Temperance's face instantly became an expressionless mask, and the other three froze as well, just looking at him like he was some kind of idiot.

And he must be one because he was talking about _himself_. _Way to go, dumbass. _He tried to recover with a sickly grin plastered on his face.

"Uh… um, maybe 'exsanguinated' is ok."

Zack sniffed his disapproval of the interruption then resumed his lecture. "While the fourth round did penetrate and follow a trajectory through the abdomen again it could have been much worse. It appears that round was slowed down substantially because your injuries showed no signs whatsoever of the hydrodynamic cavitation effects characteristic of high velocity gun shot wounds which are normally so devastating to soft tissue. As a matter of fact your injuries were more similar to a knife wound, say one caused by a stiletto, than to even a lower velocity GSW from a larger caliber handgun. Additionally, the round managed to miss both the anterior and posterior ribs which meant it did not tumble nor were there any bone fragments to impart further trauma. Finally, nothing of import was damaged in the retroperitoneal area behind the abdominal cavity, the trajectory was superior to the right kidney and adrenal gland and lateral to the inferior vena cava and the nerve ganglia closer to the spinal column."

Booth thought it was not a little scary that he actually understood most of that. _Been spending far too much time around squints. _But so much for what _didn't_ get hit…

"So… what about what _did_ get hit?"

"You had substantial blood loss from the damage to the liver, but it was not quite catastrophic although you did have to receive a few units. Most of the blood in your circulatory system is still your own instead of a stranger's, which is always a good thing. Better yet, you only lost a small portion of your liver to hepatectomy in the repair."

"Hepa-what?" That was the only new one.

"The surgeon had to remove a small pieced of the most damaged tissue, trimming it back to where the bleeding could be controlled by ligature and cauterization." Zack saw the look on his face. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll be letting you drink beer again soon enough."

"More troublesome in the short term was the respiratory distress caused by damage to your diaphragm. It was lacerated and herniated, which let the bleeding from your liver to cause moderate hemothorax, as well as for the abdominal organs to displace into the chest cavity. Both of these factors reduced your inspired lung volume. Worse, the trauma caused a temporary paralysis to the musculature of the diaphragm itself meaning that your only way to breathe at all was by means of expanding the rib cage via the intracostal muscles between the ribs, which are not very efficient."

"You got that right. I felt like I was drowning."

"Well the excellent news is that your blood pressure never dropped to truly dangerous levels, and, better yet, your heart kept a good sinus rhythm and so never had to be defibrillated much less restarted. It looks like there is no reason you won't make a one hundred percent recovery, and probably more rapidly than you expect."

In spite of all the shit, Booth realized he had even more to be grateful for than he thought.

"Zack…"

"Yes, Agent Booth?"

"Thanks for the explanation." Temperance was looking directly at him again as Zack nodded in acknowledgment. Booth caught her eye.

He gave her a smile, reminded of another similar occasion. "Hey, I thought I said you shouldn't be looking at my X-rays."

Her smile in return as she obviously remembered gave him a small thrill of pleasure. _Yes._ She was starting to warm up.

But Hodgins spoiled the shared moment.

"Dude, back in the ER she saw a _lot_ more than just your X-rays." This time Hodgins wore the shit eating grin in payback.

Just about the time he realized he should be embarrassed but before he could decide how to respond, it got worse.

Zack chimed in, "We all did."

Everyone just stopped for a moment. Zack slowly colored with all eyes on him.

Jack snickered first. Angela merely dimpled. Booth felt like he wanted to pull the sheet up over his head, but then he ended up chuckling too. _What the hell. _However his amusement faded quickly as he realized that Temperance was neither laughing at his or Zack's expense, nor sharing his discomfiture. Instead she was wearing what passed for her poker face. _Shit._ He had not missed the way she first shuddered at Hodgins' words. Monday night really must have been rough for her. _Damn_.

He couldn't decide if Angela sensed something or if it was just a coincidence of timing. She opened her small bag and fished out a set of keys.

"Zack, could you go down and get my car brought around?" She tossed the keys across the foot of the bed to him without waiting for his answer. "I've got her," she said, indicating Brennan and her chair with a nod. Booth was surprised at how Zack left without getting permission first, but then he supposed it was fully possible that Angela had actually arranged ahead of time to get him and Temperance a little privacy. If so, bless her calculating, matchmaking little heart.

He caught an odd look that passed between Temperance and Angela, but he had no idea what to make of it so he let it slide, turning back just in time to catch Angela nudge Hodgins with her elbow before she left him and backed out into the doorway.

Jack cleared his throat nervously then spoke, "You know, on some of the conspiracy boards I frequent the theory is already making the rounds that you were a plant. The Feds knew of the plot and allowed it to proceed as far as it did just so they could look good by saving the day. That's the real reason you just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

_Oh fuck._ This must be their unfinished business rearing its ugly head. He just wanted to forget it and move on without spoiling the moment. He really was not in the mood for more of this shit and knew he was probably going to end up losing his temper with the little bastard in front of Bones… which pissed him off even more.

Jack must have seen it building in his eyes because he held up his hands as if to stop Booth and continued in a rush, "Not me, man, honest! I told 'em I know the guy personally and asked if they really thought your playing bullet magnet was part of the master plan. They had the obvious comeback that just because you were a well-meaning dupe didn't prove them wrong. Some of these conspiracy buffs are fucking idiots."

As his words registered Booth's heart rate started settling down again.

Jack was trying to give him his most likable smile, and he cooled off the rest of the way.

"Man, I was such an ass last week, getting carried away like I always do. Angela was right. You really are one of the good guys. I'm sorry. I know I ruined your homecoming." With the last he glanced over at Temperance, then he looked back into Booth's eyes. "I never would have expected it in a million years, but I think we've become friends." He held up a hand again, "Ok, ok, I know what you're thinking. Don't worry, I didn't presume to say _best_ friends." He chuckled at himself then sobered. "It's just that I'd still like to be _a_ friend if you'll let me." Jack watched him warily.

Booth let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"You _are_ an ass sometimes."

Jack's expression became downcast.

"But you're ok."

Jack looked up and a grin slowly lit up his features. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We're cool? For real?"

Booth nodded.

"Thanks, man. I guess I'll be seeing you around the Lab then."

Hodgins turned and was passing Angela who was reentering from her spot in the doorway when Booth called him.

"Hodgins!" He almost barked it.

The entomologist practically jerked as he stopped and turned around. Booth almost laughed at the suddenly nervous look on his face.

"Yes?"

Booth indicated the tray table to his left with a nod. "Go ahead. You never quit eyeballing it the whole time. Just take the damned pudding already."

Jack's eyes lit up. "You sure?"

Booth nodded.

"Cool!"

Jack came around and grabbed the shrink wrapped dish which he immediately uncovered. He grabbed the spoon and took the first bite, and Booth thought that if the other man were a dog he'd be happily wagging his tail. Jack had the second spoonful half way to his mouth when Angela cleared her throat loudly and insistently. Jack was clearly torn between the pudding and orders and his expression was almost comical.

Booth was now looking at Temperance, and he was ready for him to leave too. "Go. Take it with you and leave it at the nurse's station."

Hodgins just nodded as he kept gobbling the stuff on the way out, but at the door he stopped long enough to swallow and speak with an empty mouth.

"I almost forgot…"

Booth looked his way again.

"…nice shooting."

As he nodded one last time to Jack, Angela darted back inside. Booth looked up at her as she approached.

"I don't care what you say, you're still my hero."

She bent and kissed him on the cheek. She whispered in his ear, "Thanks. You hang in there."

He squeezed her hand, and then she went back around the foot of the bed to Temperance on the other side. Angela bent and said something in her ear, then she straightened and said to both of them, "You two take as long as you need. I've got the boys." As she said it she pushed the wheelchair a foot closer.

Booth grinned as he watched her leave, admiring her nerve.

Now it was finally just the two of them, he and his 'Bones'. He was filled with nervous anticipation. _Showtime._

Temperance was smiling a little now. It seemed she'd finally loosened up some. He gave her his most dazzling 'charm' smile.

"We've got to stop meeting like this."


	35. Rapprochement

**A/N**

**Some of you MIA reviewers (or readers who've never reviewed) please let me hear from you! Just so you know to be on the lookout… Chapter 36 is _already_ written, and will be posted a day or so later. Ch37 should be up another day or two after that. **

**P.S. Any similarities to an episode of the show are purely coincidental – I've had this roughed in for months.**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday, Early Evening_

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he told her. "I hope it's not becoming a habit."

"I don't think only two data points constitute a trend." She smiled wanly in return, but then her eyes slid away from his. Apparently he wasn't the only one who was nervous.

He was suddenly at a loss for how to proceed, and an awkward silence ensued. She surprised him by speaking first.

"May I?" She glanced at him as she pointed to the two cards on one corner of the tray table that her roving eyes had come to rest on.

"Sure." _Not exactly cutting to the chase._ Still, he was just glad she was talking without him having to coax everything out of her.

He watched her pick up Parker's card, examine the front, and then open it. As he expected, she found it impossible not to smile at the picture his son had crayoned of the two of them throwing a football on a grassy field with flowers and a blue sky with a smiling sun, and an unevenly lettered "Get well soon, Daddy. I love you!" He suspected the total absence of guns from the card was Rebecca's influence, after all Parker did have a vague idea of his job, but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned the card had the intended effect.

Her eyes met his briefly over the opened card, and, miracle of miracles, she was still smiling as she carefully laid it back down on the table. _Thank God. _

Better yet, she even teased a little. "So, who carries the art gene in the family?"

"Trust me, that had to be from Rebecca."

She nodded as she picked up the other card.

He teased back, "Bones, that's the part where you're supposed to politely disagree with me about my lack of talent."

She just smirked and picked up the striking scarlet and gold card. The front was adorned only with the "Globe and Anchor" insignia of the United States Marine Corps; it contained no pre-printed text. He was amused by the frown she made when she first read the scrawled note inside.

Her nose wrinkled as she read it out loud. "_'Hooaahh?' _I don't know what that means."

He laughed out loud. She gave him a dirty look then read the rest, still clearly puzzled, "Em-gee-wye-ess-gee-tee Mitchell C. Evans, USMC." She simply raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

For once she needed help deciphering _his_ brand of gibberish. He explained, "'Hooaahh!' is the Army cheer, and the other is the abbreviation for the rank of Master Gunnery Sergeant. Gunny Evans was my instructor down at Camp Lejeune at the Marines' Scout-Sniper School." He laughed again, "I swore that old bastard didn't like me."

He clarified that at the questioning look she gave him, "Inter-service rivalry. The Marines consider themselves 'elite' and the Army just undisciplined cannon fodder."

She nodded and put the card back.

"Cullen said it's a secret for now that I'm here, but I guess once he saw my picture on the front page he must have worked the military grapevine. Nobody is plugged in like a lifer NCO."

She nodded once more. Then after a moment she asked, "Do you know your prognosis? Have they given you any idea how long it might be before you're fully recovered?"

He shook his head. "I imagine with my luck the answer will be 'It depends', but the nurse said I should learn more in the morning when the chief surgeon, I think it was Barrett, makes her rounds."

Turnabout was fair play. "What about your leg?"

"They want my weight off it a few more days, then after that I'm supposed to still wear this boot," she tapped it just below her knee with some annoyance, "for a few more. After that they want me to walk quite a bit while avoiding anything more strenuous."

Booth realized that in informing him of her experience, Cullen had left out something important. At least something more important to him… which bomb blast had caused her injury. Not knowing if he might have prevented it was starting to eat at him, but he held his tongue. _Not yet._

In the lull while he was thinking she looked away from him to the cards on the tray table. She reached out a hand and slid them around with a finger tip to neatly arrange them, aligning them squarely with the corner of the rectangular surface.

These silences were killing him. It was ridiculous, but the horrors of Monday hung in the air between them unaddressed, the proverbial elephant in the living room. He had an idea of how to broach the subject indirectly, but again she surprised him by beating him to it.

She continued slowly, still looking at the cards, "When I asked how you are doing… I meant more than physically." She looked up at him again.

He knew she was talking about the killing he'd done.

_Strong shoulder..._ Not that he'd be able to fool her completely, or even really try. "I think… I'm going to be ok." At her look of concern he added, "Don't worry. I'm actually going to take some advice you gave me a while back."

The concern was replaced by a puzzled frown, but not wanting to risk an argument about religion that might spoil the fragile mood, he didn't explain about the priest. Instead he rushed to head her off.

"What about you?" She became wary at his question. "Cullen filled me in on what you had to do on the inside."

Her eyes slid off to the side, and her tone became flatly 'scientific'. "I simply applied some of my years of martial arts training." After a second her eyes made contact with his again, but her voice was less sure, "…not that I ever expected to fully use it."

He gauged the distance and cursed silently. If only Angela had pushed her another foot closer… For the moment he could only reach out with words.

"Even if it happens in a split second, it's never just a reflex when you kill." He hated it but the word needed to be said. "The mind has a way of taking… responsibility," he'd almost said assuming guilt, "whether you like it or not, sometimes when you least expect it." He examined her face intently. "Have you had any nightmares about it?"

"No!"

She dropped her gaze briefly at his continued stare and added softly, "No, not about… that."

She didn't say _no_ nightmares at all, but he decided to let that ride for now. "Promise me you'll tell me if you do?"

She looked stubborn for a moment, but then she bit her lower lip and nodded.

"Good," he said softly. He could see her gather herself, thinking...

"It would be irrational to feel guilty about killing someone in self-defense." She said it as if she were trying to reassure herself.

He nodded, "Yes. But it's not a purely rational thing. Guilt probably isn't the right word." He took a breath as he searched for the right words. "It's _complicated_. However justified, that doesn't make it any less ugly, any less powerful, or that there's no cost. It's still a line that, once you've crossed it… there's no going back." He let out a sigh. "That's probably a good thing because otherwise it might be too easy. Just be warned that it may end up bothering you more than you expect." She seemed more receptive now, but not quite sold. "Trust me. I _know_ what I'm talking about."

She swallowed and nodded at that, then looked back up directly at him. "What about you? Those men…"

He forced a smile for her, "I'm not worried about them. If they want to haunt me, well, they have to get in line, all the way at the back."

She gamely returned his smile, but hers wasn't very convincing either.

His smile was a lie, and it faded from his face. He would have given anything to have spared her that loss of innocence. Lord knew, with all the blood he already had on his hands, a little more wouldn't have made much difference. Instead, now she had some on hers.

"I'm so sorry. If only I'd been faster… I let them in and they hurt you. Worse, I couldn't even save you, you had to save yourselves."

He grimaced and looked away, but her words brought him back to her face.

"For what it's worth, not that it should matter, my leg was injured in the first explosion, before you could possibly have done anything. And you _did_ save me and Angela even if you didn't know it at the time. After the… the terrorist in the exit, when we were leaving the theater our escape was cut off by another one, a new one, out in the Gallery. I just knew we were about to die, but when you attacked outside, the explosion you caused supplied the diversion we needed to get clear."

Cullen hadn't told him that. He felt a lump in his throat, and he looked away as his eyes watered. He blinked it away. Maybe, just maybe, he'd got part of it right out of dumb luck after all. However, he pushed away the sliver of relief. There was just too much on his head…

"Besides," she added, "how can you be more responsible for me than I am for myself?"

He couldn't dismiss it that easily. "Protecting you, protecting all of them… that was my job." He inhaled a deep shuddering breath even though it hurt. "You know that's who I am." She did nod, granting him that much. "I let them get to _you…_" Other than Parker, she was the person he cared about the most in the whole world. Others might call it a success, but he knew better. "Your picture should be in the papers, not mine."

Now she shook her head vigorously. "No." She wasn't done yet.

"In attacking, you saved more than us. Cullen said preliminary analysis of the video showed that approximately four hundred people were herded back into the IMAX. After our escape most of them were still stuck inside. It was only because you crippled their strength, and they knew they couldn't hold, that they began letting people go."

"If you hadn't done what you did, when you did it, Angela and I, if not killed immediately or dying later from wounds, would probably still be in there even as we speak. Even if we had been recaptured without injury, we would likely be hungry and dehydrated, trapped in our own filth as we waited to die in some hopeless rescue attempt. Or we might have been summarily shot as an example to the others once they found out I killed one of them, or tortured first for amusement. Or," she added quietly, "gang raped on videotape."

The last made him look at her sharply. Her calm expression was belied by the shadows in her eyes. She returned his gaze levelly. "I _know_," she said. "I remember reading one of the follow up stories on Beslan last year. We can never repay you."

He knew the rest but had _not_ known about the rape aspect of the school hostage crisis. Cullen had mentioned video cameras being found in their gear. He blinked again furiously. That he'd let the first group of such animals in, near her… it made his original failure worse, not better. He felt like throwing up.

"Still… I should have been faster…"

Brennan shook her head, "You did all… no, you did _more_, than anyone else could expect in the situation. There just was no time."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued quietly, "I _know_. You were on some tourist's camcorder from the moment when you first pulled up on the sidewalk. I've seen the video from outside of the building as well as the inside. _All_ of it."

He grimaced, thinking of all the carnage _he'd_ inflicted.

His voice was shaky, "Cullen… he shouldn't have let you see that."

"No." She was insistent. "I had to know for myself. I made him show me."

He simply nodded, knowing how determined she could be. He could tell she was carefully measuring her words.

She spoke slowly. "Booth, what you did was… incredibly… brutal…"

His eyes stung and he closed them. She had to be thinking of the way he'd put down the wounded men. Would she ever be able to look at him the same way again? He felt sick to his stomach once more.

But she wasn't finished…

"But it was also exactly what was needed. You knew what was right, and you _acted_. Decisively. Even though following protocol would have been far easier. You saved so many lives…"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, totally caught off guard by this unanticipated direction.

"You were magnificent," she finished.

His throat tightened again, and his vision blurred. He'd thought he was doing ok after talking to Cullen, but he didn't realize just how much he depended on her understanding and approval. It was the strangest role reversal, but ever since he'd considered picking up a rifle again she'd become his guide, his touchstone.

Some 'strong shoulder' he'd turned out to be. He couldn't handle the compassion in her eyes and had to turn away as he tried to blink back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him.

A few simple words were all it took…

"I am so very, very proud of you."

He almost managed to choke it back at first, but then he was utterly undone.

Heaving sobs wracked his entire body as all of the accumulated tension and fear, guilt and grief suddenly began leaving him in an unstoppable torrent. He could barely breathe, and all of his wounds hurt. It nearly felt like he was dying all over again.

Half blind, he turned to her…


	36. Release

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday, Early Evening_

At first Brennan was thoroughly stunned by the catharsis her words had inadvertently unleashed, but then by some miracle she understood.

She had granted Booth permission to forgive himself for the crime of not being perfect.

And she was terrified.

There was a time when, confronted by such an intense display of emotion, she would have felt _alien_, been incapable of relating, and utterly clueless about how to respond.

But no more.

She had changed. _Grown_. And much of it had been with his help.

So that wasn't the problem.

Now she knew exactly what she should do. She wanted to do it, ached to do it.

The problem was she _couldn't_.

When she'd thought he was dying, leaving her, it utterly tore her apart. There was only one safe path…

She'd entered the hospital room determined to keep her distance from him in order to quietly abort their budding relationship. She was going to act like nothing had happened in the corridor, that he hadn't kissed her, that they were merely partners. She'd hoped to avoid a hurtful scene. Admittedly it wasn't much of a plan, but it was the one she had.

It was the only way she knew how to protect herself.

Her resolve had very nearly cracked simply upon the first sight of him alert and so alive again, but she'd recovered. Then Angela had unexpectedly left her alone with him. She'd tried to be 'normal', to just be a friend, but she couldn't help herself. She had erred in getting too close, in talking like they had talked so many times before in the aftermath of a troubling case. Now his raw need threatened to overwhelm her defenses. She'd been right…

She _had_ to keep her distance. She _had_ to protect herself.

The effort nearly destroyed her, but somehow she clawed her way out of the hurricane of emotion and back into the void, the calm in the eye of the storm. She held on only by her fingernails.

With great difficulty she kept her expression neutral as she watched his body shudder even though the tensing muscles had to be pulling painfully at the sutures holding the layers of his incision closed. Worse were the strangled noises that escaped with the tears running freely down his face. She knew what she should do. She so wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him... but therein lay her peril.

She just managed to keep from shedding any tears of her own.

It was the hardest and by far the cruelest thing she'd ever done…

She sat and did _nothing_.

And inside her something she'd only recently discovered, something she hadn't known she was capable of …

something so precious and green and _alive_…

withered and died.

- - -

What Booth saw through the tears still flooding his eyes bewildered him at first.

There was a brief flicker of something undefinable in her eyes then there was just… nothing. She simply sat there hopelessly out of reach, watching him impassively.

After a few more moments, he finally caught a breath and started to call her name, her real name, but then he thought better of it.

He looked away and attempted to regain control of himself, to slow his ragged breathing before he hurt himself for real. He pulled the fallen sheet up about him and tried to roll on to his side, but the strain on his stitches just hurt too badly, burning as if they were on the verge of tearing through the muscle. He was too entangled in the various lines anyway.

Instead, he did the only thing he could.

He turned his tear-streaked face away from her and toward the wall to his right.


	37. Recession

**A/N**

**Apologies in advance, but this chapter and the next are again on the shorter side. There just were some very natural break points. I'm hoping for Wednesday night for ch38.**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday Evening_

Booth got his breathing back under control, more or less, and by sheer force of will turned off the waterworks. He wiped his eyes and nose with the corner of the sheet then lay again staring at the wall, seeing nothing for a long moment.

God, it hurt. Once again he couldn't fucking believe it…

Against all the odds they had both survived their separate ordeals, but instead of having a joyful reunion she'd ultimately choked and turned her back on him. He'd let her fool him twice after all. Shame on him for ever thinking she was capable of properly loving him back. All the warning signs had been there, but he'd ignored them. He really was a god damned fool. Jesus, just how fucking stupid could one man be?

He was heartsick with the knowledge that she really did care for him on some level, he was sure of it. Granted, he must have scared her to death in getting himself shot, but he just couldn't live like this, under constant threat of her running away whenever the going got tough. Maybe it was better to learn this now…

He closed his eyes as he straightened his head on the pillow. When he reopened them instead of looking at her he focused on a spot high on the wall opposite the bed. He finally spoke. He practically bit out the words…

"Sorry about that. It won't happen again." _Not in front of you._

Still she said nothing. Neither did he catch any movement from the corner of his eye.

He came to a decision. He'd be damned if he was going to let it end this way. He was going to confront her and give her one more chance… or at least make her have to _say_ it.

He took a deep breath even though it hurt. He didn't try to hide his bitterness. "When I saw you on Monday…"

She interrupted him. "I finally got the flowers…"

So she was changing the subject. Probably figured where he was going… so she was a coward, but then he figured he already knew that. But, curiosity piqued a little, he decided to see where she went.

"I got the flowers," she repeated. "The apartment manager gave them to me Tuesday evening."

She paused as if expecting him to say something, but he wasn't going to help her out, not one fucking bit. The ball was entirely in her court.

But almost in spite of himself he perked up a little more, his interest rising…

Having put herself on the spot, she fumbled a bit. "Arrangements of cut flowers are just so… impractical. All too soon they wilt and they die…"

He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding with a sigh. He should have known… cynical geek modeThis was it then, her pullback. Their kiss never happened. _Fuck her. _She may as well have brought the flowers with her and thrown them in his fucking face. At least it looked like he might be spared the hated "can we still be friends?" speech.

When she started to add something else, obviously uncomfortable with his silence, he flared up. He didn't give a flying fuck that he sounded angry when he cut her off.

"_Impractical?_ 'Impractical' is the whole damned point!"

For the first time he glanced at her. She was watching him intently. He looked back at the far wall and explained.

"We have to be 'practical' in order to survive. Monday sure as hell proved that. But we don't _live_ for the practical. None of the things that make life really worth living are very 'practical'." He said it like it was a dirty word.

He continued somewhat more calmly, "And as to wilting and dying, well that still happens sooner or later even when the flower stays on the damned plant."

He wasn't quite done. Out of sheer stubbornness he wanted to _make_ her understand.

"Sometimes… sometimes, when you see something beautiful, something truly special, you just have to go for it while you can, because whether you do or not, it won't always be there."

She finally said something.

"_Carpe diem_," she said softly.

"Yeah, 'seize the day'," he agreed. So she did understand, at least a little.

Which only pissed him off all over again.

He lifted his head up to glance at her one last time then let it drop back to the pillow. _Enough of this shit. _He already felt like crap, but suddenly he felt old, used up.

"Do me a favor?" he asked tiredly, still without looking at her.

"Yes. Anything."

Damn, but if she didn't almost sound eager to please, just after backhandedly tearing his heart out. He let his head sink deeper into the pillow and shut his watery eyes.

"Tell the nurse I'd like some more pudding on your way out."


	38. Redux

**A/N I'm shooting for Wednesday for ch39. At this point you might wish to re-read 36 & 37.**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday Evening_

As she watched Booth weep, Brennan's future stretched before her, joyless perhaps, but safe.

She thought for a moment that he was about to say something before he tried to roll on to his side, but he didn't. During his release the sheet had slipped lower toward his waist, uncovering his bandages. In spite of knowing what lay beneath them, and the sight of bruises which peeked out around the edges, her ever more tenuous hold on the void could not stop a small part of her mind from noting how beautiful the well defined musculature of his torso was before he hid himself from her with the sheet.

She squelched the errant thought with a vengeance. After what she'd just done she was no longer entitled to such an observation.

His attempt to roll over apparently too painful, Booth settled for turning his face away from her as his crying subsided.

It was done.

She had successfully protected herself from getting sucked in, but she felt no relief. Instead she felt nauseated, disgusted with herself. In order to prevent herself from being hurt, she had ended up hurting him grievously, just when he was most vulnerable.

She watched silently as he dabbed at his face with the sheet, still turned toward the other wall.

However painful, it was the right thing to do, she tried to convince herself. It was a bit late for doubts about her chosen course anyway. Monday night, when she had caught a glimpse of him on the operating table apparently near death, looking worse than many fresh corpses she'd seen, she'd felt like she was dying too. As it was she had felt perilously close to losing her grip on sanity. It was as if all of the emotions surrounding her parents' disappearance and presumed deaths, as well as Russ's departure, had been compressed from several months down into the space of a few hours. It was just too much.

If that was the price of letting herself love someone, she couldn't face paying it again.

Even then she had still been torn, but the final blow had been when she watched Cullen's video of Booth being shot down, compounded by the explanation that he'd willingly drawn fire on himself in order to save the hostages. She knew in her heart that even if they were together in a relationship he would still make the same choice just as he hoped someone else would if it had been her and Parker standing there. He was that kind of man.

Who knew that the universe could be such a cruel place, in that one of the qualities which had drawn her into loving him was also one which meant that she should not, could not, let herself love him?

As she watched, Booth closed his eyes and straightened his head on the pillow, but instead of looking at her he stared at a spot high on the wall opposite the bed. It was probably better that way even though his justified refusal to look at her hurt.

He finally spoke in a grating tone, "Sorry about that. It won't happen again."

Her heart felt like a hard, shriveled knot in her chest. It was stupid of her to not have fully realized that in rejecting him that she had invited, no, guaranteed, his rejection of her. So much for her plan of avoiding a hurtful scene.

_What did you expect, a medal? _the little voice in her head mocked.

She watched Booth take a deep breath even though it must have been painful.

"When I saw you on Monday…" he began bitterly.

She instantly grasped his direction. Reminding her of their kiss, the one unexpected moment of joy on the single most terrible day of her entire life, was a grave threat. She had barely let herself think about it, first while fearing for his safety, then later when she began considering pulling away. She had to say something, anything, to stop him.

Her mouth gaped for a second then, for some unknown reason, her subconscious settled on a particular diversion.

"I finally got the flowers…" she blurted out.

She had no idea what she was doing, and she tried to dampen a rising sense of panic as he turned to look directly at her. …

"I got the flowers," she repeated. "The apartment manager gave them to me Tuesday evening."

Even as she became more nervous under his narrowed gaze, she caught a hopeful glimmer of a way forward. She fumbled with the possibilities. She did have a heart after all, however stunted, but in her distraction she let the coldly logical part of her mind temporize for her…

"Arrangements of cut flowers are just so… impractical. All too soon they wilt and they die…"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth Booth let out a sigh, and he withdrew again – and she knew she'd made another horrible mistake. Far from protecting her, her fears were only continuing to hurt them both. Her mind flailed about for a second then she opened her mouth to try to rectify it.

But Booth beat her to it…

"_Impractical?_ 'Impractical' is the whole damned point!" he said angrily.

She couldn't take her eyes off him, paralyzed like a motorist stranded in front of an oncoming train. What he was saying was the most important thing in the world. Booth only glanced at her briefly before looking back at the empty expanse of wall to her left.

"We have to be 'practical' in order to survive. Monday sure as hell proved that. But we don't _live_ for the practical. None of the things that make life really worth living are very 'practical'."

Each time he said the word it felt like a slap in the face, but then he calmed slightly.

"And as to wilting and dying, well that still happens sooner or later even when the flower stays on the damned plant."

Suddenly, she knew what she'd meant to say, should have said about the flowers. Her breath caught as he concluded…

"Sometimes… sometimes, when you see something beautiful, something truly special, you just have to go for it while you can, because whether you do or not, it won't always be there."

For all of her adult life, caution bordering on cynicism had held her back. She had settled for contentment at the cost of happiness because she was one who could never entirely overlook the fact that the glass was also half empty. Could she ever change?

"_Carpe diem_," she said softly.

"Yeah, 'seize the day'," he agreed.

Her mind raced uselessly.

Booth lifted up to glance at her again then dropped back to the pillow. For the first time since she'd entered he truly looked ill, weak.

"Do me a favor?" he asked tiredly, still without looking at her.

She was ready to grasp desperately at the proffered straw. "Yes. Anything."

His eyes shut as his head sank into the pillow. "Tell the nurse I'd like some more pudding on your way out."

Her throat constricted, and her vision suddenly blurred. His words of dismissal pierced her to the core, but she had to accept them. It was only fair after what she had done to him.

The little voice wasn't through with her yet, _Well, as painful as all that was, at least it's done. You're committed now._

She realized that once she left the hospital room it really was over: the stillborn relationship, the deepened friendship, the working partnership… everything was unraveling.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she hurriedly wiped it away.

She didn't have the right.

Her future stretched before her, safe perhaps, but joyless.

She deserved it.


	39. Rupture

**A/N **

**I'm shooting for later Monday for chapter 40.**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday Evening_

"Tell the nurse I'd like some more pudding on your way out."

Booth kept his eyes closed, hoping his quivering gut would settle down while he waited for her to leave. Whether she was truly cold-hearted or just chicken shit didn't matter. It wasn't his problem any more. He was through having to 'understand' her. If she couldn't, or wouldn't, understand him for a change… hell, he probably owed Williams an apology.

God, but he was pathetic. He hadn't really dated in the better part of a year, not even one of his periodic bouts of masochistic backsliding with Rebecca, and he now realized that a big part of the reason was that he'd been unconsciously saving himself for her, long before he'd become aware of his growing feelings.

In other words he'd been a sap. He ought to just get laid and forget about her.

Once she was gone that would be the end of it. All of it. He wouldn't hang around. Surely now he had some pull he could use to expedite swinging a transfer before his fifteen minutes were up. He just hoped Cullen wouldn't give him too much shit. He might even get lucky and already have a new gig lined up for when he came off medical leave.

However, his effort to hold on to some of his earlier anger as a way to mask the hurt was failing. He blinked back fresh tears that were on the verge and tried to ignore the continuing sick feeling in his stomach while he listened for the sound of her exit.

But nothing happened…

After a few seconds he heard her shifting in the chair, but it did not move. The sounds remained fixed to his front left. _Damned woman won't take a hint._

It got worse. He heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.

_Un-fucking-believable._ _He_ was the one who'd just been fucked over. The nerve of some women would never cease to amaze him. He'd never had her pegged as the 'kick, kiss or cry' type but he supposed that was just one more unpleasant surprise.

He opened his eyes but still refused to look directly at her. Instead, he looked toward the door.

"Please go. I'd like to be alone."

Finally his peripheral vision detected some movement accompanied by a few squeaks from the chair and a soft sound he assumed was made by the rubber tires on the floor. In a few seconds she passed the foot of the bed, then she paused briefly in the doorway, directly in his field of view where she turned back over her right shoulder to look at him, her expression shell-shocked.

He met her gaze for a long moment, willing his face to remain expressionless, easy since it was numb, then he turned left toward the empty spot where she had been sitting until he finally saw her leave from the corner of his eye.

That was it. She was gone.

They could have been so good together…

After a minute he wiped his eyes then began running through his options. About a year before he'd passed on an invite for a jump to Kidnapping. There was a good chance he could dust that one off. CounterTerror was another strong possibility, one which his current visibility might help with. He certainly wouldn't mind helping roll up any stateside cells or support structure these fuckers had. If neither of those panned out then he just might have to look further afield. For a few seconds he fantasized about Miami or sunny LA, refusing to acknowledge another lone tear that had escaped. He let out a sigh -- those just wouldn't work. Hell, even the field office in Baltimore, considered the bush leagues by comparison, might be too far away as far as getting to see Parker was concerned…

"Excuse me."

It took a second for it to sink in, then he rushed to scrub at his cheek before turning to the voice.

"May I speak?" Somehow _she_ was back in the doorway.

He supposed indulging her one last time wouldn't hurt. "Whatever." He motioned her back in. Besides, hearing her out might even prove entertaining. He made no promises not to laugh in her face. This time at least he could bear to look directly at her. Bones looked like she had been crying. _Good._

"You interrupted me earlier," she said in a very small voice.

Curious to see where this performance of hers was going, he watched her intently. She rolled herself past the foot of the bed back to about where she was before, then took a deep breath as if steeling herself.

She held her head high and spoke more loudly, "It is true that cut flowers aren't very practical, but I was also going to say that nevertheless the ones you sent me are still very lovely. Tulips are one of my favorite flowers. They are gorgeous, and I love them. Thank you."

Almost in spite of himself, he nodded. Suddenly he felt unsure...

She startled him with a change of direction, this time taking on her familiar lecturing voice, though perhaps a bit stiffer than usual.

"Personal relationships between colleagues or coworkers are considered undesirable according to the conventional wisdom with good reason: even if they don't end badly, they lead to divided loyalties causing tension and conflict in the workplace. These problems are only exacerbated when the relationship ends."

He couldn't believe his ears. She came back just to tell him this shit? His amazement was starting to turn into anger when she gave him pause...

Suddenly, she looked as vulnerable as he'd ever seen her. Her eyes glistened, and her tone went softer, lower.

"But now I realize none of that matters, not if what happened on Monday means what I think it did. I don't think you really want to be alone."

He blinked his eyes closed for a moment, afraid this was some cruel trick. He reopened them as she continued.

"I thought I could do it, but I… I just can't… I don't want to be alone either, not anymore." A solitary tear trailed down her left cheek. Her voice quavered, "If you still want me… I know I can be clueless or clumsy sometimes, but I promise you, I'm not cold." A second tear joined the first.

He was frozen, afraid to hope, afraid to lead with his chin again. He lay helplessly as, after a moment watching him, she rolled the chair a couple feet closer then bent down to fiddle with the wheel locks. His breath caught in his throat as she started to stand. Her face looked like she was going to her execution, but she didn't take her eyes off him.

Finally, he could speak, though just barely. "You probably ought to keep your ride." He nodded toward the now empty spot just outside the door. "I think Hodgins took your crutches down with him." He couldn't meet her eyes.

She said nothing as she hobbled to the side of the bed and took hold of the upper rail near his elevated head.

He hated the way his voice cracked, but he did at least manage to look up at her…

"What… just what the hell are you doing, Bones?"

She smiled nervously, but the effect was further spoiled by more tears.

"Being impractical."

His heart skipped a beat…

She bent and kissed him.


	40. Repose

**A/N**

**This is the 40th and final chapter of the story proper, 4800 words of 'thank you' for my loyal and ever patient readers. One more chapter, 41, will contain the Epilogue. **

**If I've never heard from you, or it's been a long time, PLEASE review!**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Thursday Evening_

Her kiss was tentative at first, then increasingly insistent once Booth overcame his initial shock and began to respond properly.

He was such a pushover.

His eyes closed in reflexive pleasure, but he opened them again when he tasted salt. Her tears were freely flowing now, but not all of the wetness on his cheeks was from her. He would have sworn he was tapped out from earlier but he was wrong. He caressed her face and neck as she caressed his. When he stopped for a moment, just to look at her, she opened her eyes too.

For a long moment nothing needed to be said.

He cupped her cheek and smiled.

As if that were some kind of signal she began kissing him again feverishly, first on the forehead, then his eyes, then his cheeks before working her way back to his lips, about taking his head off.

Just when he was about to have to pull away again for some air, she stopped first. She stared into his eyes once more then broke down completely. She clung to his neck, her shoulders quaking as she held on for dear life while she wept. The power of her release pulled him in again as it so thoroughly echoed his own earlier. He was simultaneously deliriously happy and scared to death at how close he'd come to losing her. _Twice._ One instant he was comforting her, murmuring wordlessly through his renewed tears, then somehow the tables turned and she was comforting him, then back and forth again. Who was giving and who was receiving became a blur. The distinction became meaningless.

Which, he supposed, was how it should be.

Finally, Booth seemed to recover a little more quickly. It had been a near thing for both of them in so many ways. He hugged her as tightly as he could.

He stroked her hair, "Shhh… it's ok, I'm here, I've got you."

He felt her nodding against his wet shoulder as she gasped for breath, and he continued caressing her hair and her shoulders until her tears began to ebb.

"I'm ok," she mouthed against his neck, and she pulled up slightly off him to smile into his face. A thick strand of her loose hair, which had formed a curtain around them earlier, was stuck across her moist cheek. He used a finger to capture it and push it back around her ear where it belonged.

Her eyes and nose were red and runny, but she looked as beautiful to him as ever.

"I don't know about you, but I think I could use a Kleenex or six about now," he said with a smile as he wiped at his own face.

She sniffed then nodded with a laugh that sounded like it was still at least half sob, but it was an improvement. He caught her hand where it lay on his shoulder in one of his and gestured with his other toward the box of tissues on the tray table behind her.

"Over there."

She nodded again, and as she straightened up to extend a hand for the box he cautiously scooted over to make a little more room on the edge of the mattress. She turned back to him in concern at the grunt he failed to keep from escaping.

"Booth?"

"I'm ok," he said through gritted teeth at first, then the pain subsided and he could breathe again. "Here, have a seat." He patted the bed beside him, cursing its narrowness. He hadn't been in such a small one since the Army.

She nodded and sat on the edge of the mattress facing him. Her right foot still had to touch the floor for balance, but at least her weight was off her injured left leg as he'd intended.

She shared the tissues with him, and as they both wiped and blew he couldn't resist it, hoping she'd remember.

"Aren't we a pair." He took her free hand again.

She chuckled but her smile still didn't quite reach her eyes, which, heaven forbid, were starting to tear up all over again. She looked down at their joined hands.

He stroked her hand with both of his. "It's ok. I'm here. We're _both_ here. That's all that matters, right?"

She nodded.

"Look at me."

She nodded again then looked up at him, but the floodgates were on the verge of opening once more.

Her voice shook as she tried to blink back new tears. "I'm so sorry I hurt you just now. I… I was so _scared_." She sniffed again and dabbed at her nose with the already wet crumpled tissue still in her other hand. "You were leaving me…" She screwed her eyes up tight, and her voice trailed off. Her lower lip actually quivered. She couldn't finish.

But she didn't have to. He knew her. She'd thought she had to leave him first.

He'd dropped that bombshell of a kiss on her from out of the blue then promptly run out on her and got his ass shot off. So much for the delicate approach he'd been trying to take with her. Almost dying on her blew it out of the water, that was for damned sure.

He let go of her hand with his right and waved it around to get some slack in the IV line before reaching up to smooth her hair behind her ear again.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded, eager for his reassurance.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I was so scared when I found out you were inside… and just so you know, I'm very proud of you too."

She nodded again, but she was still on the verge of more tears. He found the control for the bed and raised the head a bit more. Getting more upright put some more strain on his stitches, but he had higher priorities at the moment.

He tugged her hand, and she leaned forward for another long hug. He rubbed her back until she finally ended it with another kiss.

She looked down at their hands again. She was _still_ just barely holding it in check.

"Back before you went to training, when I said I knew you'd make the hard choices I… I didn't really think that would include getting yourself shot."

He simply squeezed her hand. She looked up again, looking directly in his eyes with her blue-green ones. He could get lost in them even watery and reddened as they were…

"On Monday those women and children needed you…" she sniffed again. "But _I_ need you…" She started losing it again, and he pulled her to him.

For some reason he didn't say the obvious thing as she clutched his neck.

"Baby, I'm all yours now."

She nodded, sniffing and blinking back tears as she sat up again. Knowing how hard this had been for her he realized there was one more gift he could give her.

"Seriously," he added.

"I know," she whispered tearfully, but her eyes were again drawn down to their hands.

"Look at me, Bones."

He took her chin and raised it up so he could look in her eyes. She tried to give him a brave smile. He let go and wiped at her tears as best he could with the IV-entangled hand.

"It's back to just you and me, for real, solving cases like before." He could tell she didn't understand. "If you'll bring your laptop tomorrow so you can help me write a letter… I'm quitting HRT."

Her eyes widened in equal parts surprise and doubt, "But…"

"'But' nothing. I'm done, Temperance. Just me and you… "

She searched his face for a moment as if convincing herself he was really telling the truth then she leaned over again to kiss him soundly. Then she hugged him tightly for another long while.

He brushed her hair, not letting on that some of her weight on him was hurting a little.

He'd tell her the rest of the details later, but he meant every word. The brass could sit on his letter of resignation as long as they wanted, but as far as he was concerned, he was through. He'd play nice in public, but they could take their PR timetable and shove it up their asses if they didn't like it. He was just Special Agent Seeley Booth of Criminal Investigations again. Somehow getting backstabbed by Gregory didn't hurt so much anymore. It proved to have been worth it in another wholly unexpected way, a blessing in fact. _Maybe God really does work in mysterious ways._

He lost track of time in the happy glow of their embrace, and it took him a few seconds to recognize the sound of a throat being cleared somewhat insistently.

He opened his eyes to see the redheaded nurse in the doorway. "Excuse me," she said. Bones pulled back slightly and turned toward the door as well.

The nurse had the grace to look abashed. "I hate to interrupt, but, Miss, I'm afraid you'll have to pack up and come back tomorrow. The doctor left explicit orders that Agent Booth get some rest before we get him up later. I came by earlier and saw you were busy so I left you alone a little longer, but my supervisor is going to be all over me if you're not cleared out."

_Crap._

"Nurse…?" He didn't get her name earlier. She was about the same age as Bones.

"Waters. But you can call me Tina."

"Well, Tina, I'd really appreciate it if you could give us just a few more minutes." He plastered on his 'charm' smile. "Please?"

After a moment she nodded only reluctantly, but nod she did. That was good enough.

"Thanks, Tina."

Bones gave him a small, cryptic poke, but he took a guess...

"Oh, by the way, it's not 'Miss'. This is Doctor Temperance Brennan, and I think…" he stopped to glance at her and she smiled back, "I think she's going to be around a lot the next few days." She squeezed his hand before turning to nod at the nurse's "Pleased to meet you."

Thankfully, Tina didn't lose any time disappearing again.

Bones watched the cute nurse leave then turned back to him with a smirk on her face.

"You already had your sponge bath today, right? With Sam?"

"Squeaky clean." He shuddered, all too fully conscious now.

"Well, you let _me_ know when you're feeling dirty next." She said it with a small, enigmatic smile.

His stomach did a little flip-flop at an image that evoked.

He grinned back at her. "Is that supposed to be a veiled threat to behave myself with the nurses… or some kind of offer?"

She didn't answer. Instead, the corners of her smile quirked up ever so slightly, and her eyes just drew him in.

The warm glow was replaced by an electric tingle. For the first time, today that is, his thoughts turned to the prospect of sex with her. He'd had his suspicions, but now he knew with utter certainty that with his usually reserved lady scientist it would be pure heaven or a heart attack.

He couldn't wait.

But he would have to wait, dammit, until he was reasonably well. There'd be a whole lifetime ahead of them for fast and furious quickies, whereas there would only be one first time. He wanted to be sure he was firing on all cylinders before then. He vowed then and there to take it so achingly slow when the time came that _she_ had the heart attack.

He knew he was just sitting there with a silly grin on his face as he held her hand, but he couldn't help it. Of course, with her it wouldn't just be screwing but truly making love. Speaking of which… he was wasting their remaining precious time together.

He tried to shake off the hormonal haze. There was one more thing that needed taking care of before she left. He cleared his throat self-consciously.

"Temperance…"

She smiled more broadly at his use of her given name.

"There's something I really need to tell you before you go. I…"

He paused, suddenly a little nervous now that the big moment had arrived. "I…"

But she interrupted him. She stopped him with a finger to his lips, which he kissed without thinking.

"You don't have to say anything," she teased with a grin. He swore her eyes sparkled.

He could tell she loved throwing his own words back at him. God, he loved her. He took her hand and lowered it as he opened his mouth again to speak.

"I…"

This time she stopped him with a serious kiss that made his head spin. Hell, she put some _English_ on it as well as French. His face tingled, his ears buzzed, and it curled his toes. If he hadn't been so damned beat up it would have straightened out something else for sure. She was full of surprises. Briefly he wondered how she'd learned to do that or if it was raw talent, but then he brushed the thought aside, just grateful to be the beneficiary of her skill. He shook his head and tried to get back on track

"Would you please let me finish?" He was actually getting a little annoyed even though he couldn't help but keep smiling at her foolishly. This was _important_. He wasn't sure if he'd told her he loved her or not while under the influence of the pain meds back in ICU. He took a deep breath before continuing, "I really need to tell you something…"

Damned but if she didn't pull her hand free and put the finger on his lips again…

"Shhh. Please, let's talk tomorrow when we have more time." Her expression suddenly became shy, which he found absolutely adorable. "Plus I think I have something I want to tell you too."

He nodded at her wisdom, and his heart began pounding in anticipation. But he could still think straight, more or less. At least enough to get her back…

He captured the finger on his lips and nibbled on it before he sucked on the tip. She let out a small gasp, but he broke it off just as her eyes half-closed in pleasure at the intimate sensation. Call it a down payment he couldn't wait to follow through on. He couldn't wait to put that expression back on her face for real.

It was her turn to have to shake it off, and he chuckled at her expense. She pursed her lips in mock irritation, before opening her mouth for some comeback, but he beat her to it.

"Say… this isn't just all about that elevated serotonin nonsense is it?"

She just closed her mouth in a sheepish grin and shook her head.

_Tap, tap._

The nurse was back, just outside the doorway with a loaded cart. Booth sighed. _Time's up._

"Let me drop this off back at my station, and I'll come right back and give you a push, Dr. Brennan."

She turned to go, but Bones stopped her. "Tina, what are visiting hours tomorrow?"

"Eleven hundred to twenty-one hundred. Today was different for him just because he got out of ICU and with everything else going on."

"Thank you." The nurse pushed her cart from view.

He translated. "Bones, that's 11AM to --"

She cut him off, "11AM to 9PM." At his look of surprise she chuckled. "Since you've actually learned a little about bones, the least I can do is decipher military time."

He could only smile. She had him there.

"So you'll be here first thing, with your laptop?" He stroked her hand in his. Already, he could hardly wait for what the next day would bring.

She gave him a dazzling smile. "You can count on it. It's a date."

"No, it's not," he said.

He enjoyed her puzzled expression before clarifying, "No, a real date is what I'm going to take you on as soon as I'm all in one piece again."

"But we've already had a date…"

"Believe me, I'll never forget it, but I want to take you on one without having to pretend that it's not one. Plus, I'm not interested in putting on another show for Tommy."

She smiled at the memory he triggered. "Eleven o'clock it is, with a raincheck for a 'real' date." She punctuated their agreement with a quick kiss.

That settled, he relaxed and grinned at her again. "You know, I think I could get used to a little TLC."

But instead of smiling back her brow furrowed …

"I don't know what that means."

In spite of himself, his face fell. He recovered quickly but she'd already seen it. He consoled himself, _It's not important, just a dumb abbreviation._

Suddenly, she laughed in his face, shaking her head as she reached out to stroke his cheek. "I'm just kidding. Of course I know what that means."

He had to smile back, laughing at himself for his sense of relief. It was such a small thing anyway.

"I don't know, I think you're going to have to prove it to me tomorrow, all day as a matter of fact," he challenged. "I'm looking forward to it."

"I suppose I can manage that," she smirked, "but just remember, I can be annoying. You may get more than you bargained for with me underfoot."

"I know." He chuckled at her look of open-mouthed surprise. "See what it feels like? That's where I was supposed to politely disagree, wasn't it?"

She rolled her eyes but nodded with a patiently suffering grin.

He continued, "Yes, you can be annoying, but I'll gladly take my chances."

For another long moment he just looked into her eyes, both of them grinning like idiots. Bullet holes or no, he felt like he was sixteen again.

"Are you ready?" Nurse Tina called from the doorway.

Bones started to twist to get up to return to her wheelchair.

"Wait." He reached out and caught her wrist just before she got out of reach.

"How about that 'not saying anything' bit, one more time?"

This time he swore the lights dimmed and the room spun.

By the time he recovered she had already moved away.

"Call me later?" she asked.

"Definitely."

She carefully backed down into her chair, unlocked the wheels, and awkwardly rolled herself around the bed toward the door, her eyes on him the whole time. He laughed out loud as she bumped into the door frame, and the nurse practically had to jump out of the way. Bones looked annoyed then returned his grin before moving again.

He suddenly remembered something from when the squints were visiting.

"Hey!"

She stopped and turned the chair fully around. "Yes?"

"Where's my belt buckle?"

She started. He was surprised by how shocked she seemed by the question. "You still have it, don't you?"

She nodded, and her expression made the strangest transformation from guilt, to embarrassment, to finally end in a sheepish grin. She let go of the wheel rims and raised her hands to her neck.

His heart raced, and he was flooded with warmth as she reached under her collar and pulled out the brass buckle on a thick string. Somehow he hadn't really noticed it during their embraces.

She started to lift the loop of the improvised necklace over her head, but he stopped her.

"You keep it. I won't be wearing real pants for a while longer anyway."

She gave him what had to be the sunniest smile he'd ever seen from her. After a moment she looked down at the buckle then picked it up to drop it back inside her blouse.

"No. Please, leave it out." She looked at him questioningly. "I like the way it looks on you."

Her smile was restored to its full glory, and she dropped the buckle so it hung right down between her breasts. So _that_ was why… He grinned to himself. Tomorrow he'd just have to do a much more thorough job of searching her.

He raised his eyes again and didn't take them off her face until the nurse had finished backing her chair out into the hallway and she was gone. He kept staring at the empty doorway, lost in thought until his heart rate settled back to normal.

_Damn._ He _still_ had no idea if he'd told her he loved her or not when he was drugged to the eyeballs the other day.

Booth's spirits soared as a silly grin threatened to split his face. Together, maybe, just maybe, they'd both be ok.

He took the control for the bed and lowered the head further, wincing slightly as his unbending middle pulled slightly against the sutures. Gingerly, he scooted his butt further toward the foot of the bed so he could recline more comfortably. He settled happily into the mattress, feeling his muscles finally relax for the first time all day. He raised his arms, careful of the lines, and clasped his hands together behind his head against the pillow. _Finally…_ He relaxed with an audible sigh.

_Down._

Yep, he thought, he preferred her hair down.

He let out another contented sigh and closed his eyes, a half-smile still upon his lips as he drifted off.

_Life is good._

This time, he was right.

- - -

"I'll push the chair for you. Moving your own weight in one of these is a lot harder than most people think, particularly if you're not used to it," the nurse said.

Brennan looked back over her left shoulder at her. "Thank you." She flexed her left arm gingerly – the one deep cut in the triceps was still not fully healed and was stinging from the brief exertion. As they passed the nurses' station they stopped moving, and Tina came around in front of her to the counter where another nurse, a middle-aged frosted blonde woman was doing some data entry.

"Hand me some of those wet wipes?" Tina asked her.

"Sure." The other nurse passed over a zip-lock bag, and resumed her task.

Tina saw her questioning look. "Your mascara is running, hon. If you don't mind, I'll get that for you." Without waiting for a response, the nurse wiped her face off and was done before Brennan could object. Then she held up the black-stained wipes as evidence for her inspection. "That's just like a man for you, to let you leave without looking your best. God love 'em, but most of them don't know anything about clothes or makeup."

By the look of the wipes she really had been a mess. "Thank you."

"No problem. Us girls have to stick together."

Tina attempted more small talk for a moment as she resumed pushing the wheel chair toward the far elevator bank. Fortunately, she caught on that Brennan wasn't exactly in a chatty mood, and the rest of the short trip passed in silence, giving her a little time to reflect…

Tomorrow they could start figuring out how to deal with the potential obstacles to their relationship, but tonight none of that had mattered. Only the essentials did. She looked down at the belt buckle which she'd left exposed outside of her blouse.

She shook her head at her own foolishness. She now realized she had thrown herself so wholly into helping the FBI on Wednesday in order to keep away from the hospital, and him, but her inability to put down the belt buckle should have been the giveaway that her plan to cut herself off from him was futile.

When she'd entered his room she'd thought she had known what she was going to do, but now she realized she'd been delusional to think that she could have turned her back on the best thing to ever happen to her. Even out of fear.

She simply wasn't that strong.

But she was beginning to realize that, with him, maybe she wouldn't have to be.

Together they would be strong enough to help each other heal from the traumas of Monday. There was no one she trusted more to help her deal with the nightmares she'd had, or the troubling suspicion that the murdered grandfather would still be alive if he had not listened to her. As to that, whatever doubts, regrets or nightmares he still suffered from, she vowed to never, ever let him down again.

She realized that in spite of her previous relationships she probably did not know what being a "couple" truly meant, at least not in the way Booth probably understood the term. It might be a source of friction, but she was eager to find out, to explore this new territory with him. She smiled to herself. _Hmm, partners-with-benefits…_

She remembered his jibe about serotonin levels. She no longer thought that that was all there was to these feelings. Serotonin might be their expression, but this, this aliveness, was definitely more than mere brain chemistry. Somehow the whole _was_ greater than the sum of the parts. Her stance as a strict material reductionist might require some reexamination.

That said, once he was well enough she had every intention of optimizing _both_ their levels, with a vengeance. Touching so much of his warm, bare skin had already boosted hers some. She decided she'd been putting off shopping for a bigger bed long enough. She smiled to herself at the thought of breaking it in as they neared the elevators.

She watched Angela notice their approach and stand up. Apparently both of the guys were down with the car. Her friend smiled, but she concealed her concern poorly.

"I've got her," Angela said as Tina slowed the chair to a stop.

Brennan turned to the nurse. "Thank you for the push."

"No problem." The redhead waved it off. "You take care of that leg now, and don't you worry a thing about us. We're going to take good care of him. You've got yourself a good man there."

Angela became anxious, clearly fearing the worst based on their last conversation before their visit.

Brennan smiled at her friend then turned to the nurse. Some old habits didn't die so hard after all.

"Yes… yes, I do don't I?"

Angela beamed.

Tina pushed the call button then left them at the elevator. Angela apparently sensed her introspective mood because she held her tongue instead of quizzing her to death while they waited. She was such a good friend.

Besides, Angela would get all of the details out of her later anyway, whether it took Häagen-Dazs or hot tongs.

A chime sounded with the arrival of the elevator, and the outer doors opened. As Angela wheeled her inside the car and turned her around, Brennan touched the brass belt buckle where it hung between her breasts, still slightly warm from its earlier contact with her bare skin.

While waiting for the doors to close, she idly wondered if this was what it felt like when some of the girls in high school were given their boyfriend's class ring to wear on a necklace. Back then she'd had no one to want to do that for her.

The cynical anthropologist in her jumped all over that stray thought with both feet. The voice, avatar of her defense mechanisms, sounded positively disgusted as the inner doors closed…

"What? You've got be kidding! The football players and cheerleaders? They despised you as much as you resented them. Anyway, the rings were just the tokens by which a man marked a young woman as chattel, his property, in order warn off other potential suitors. It's an embarrassing atavism, and you shouldn't be complicit in your own subjugation. It's degrading."

She wouldn't let anything spoil her euphoria. She smiled at her reflection, just discernible in the brushed stainless steel of the elevator doors.

_Oh, shut up! _

- -

**A/N**

**Remember, I love reviews with specifics about the story!! If at all possible, I'd like to hear your reaction to this chapter specifically, as well as to the story as a whole.**

**On another note, I'm not big on mixing songs with fic – it usually feels far too sappy -- but this one really fit this part of the story and the emotion it evokes contributed to the writing process at various points. **

Until You Break

By Matthew Sweet

Album: Blue Sky on Mars

**Trust me, the lyric isn't _quite_ perfect but the music really is. You should listen to it if you can – it's beautiful.**

**One more chapter to go, the Epilogue!!!**

P.S. For my international readers, with regard to the "English" reference, it is the term from pool where the player strikes the cue ball off center to impart a spin for all sorts of weird effects.

P.P.S. As of Dec 8 I've gone back and tweaked Brennan's characterization in ch1 to 8 where it had been a bit too soft. I also made a couple of changes of moderate substance to ch11 and 13. If FF complains you have already reviewed it, you can review again anonymously, just sign in the body of the review.


	41. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Saturday, Mid-day_

Jack Hodgins was fuming.

The only thing that would make it worse was if the elevator doors were more mirror-like. As it was, if one more person got on the crowded elevator and smiled, snickered or stared at him he was going to scream.

He gave the gaudy, free-standing grave-side style pink and purple botanical abomination beside him a vicious shake. To add insult to injury, with its built-in stand, the damned thing was a foot taller than he was. It was friggin' gigantic. It had originally been taller still, but he'd had to force it into the Mini Cooper, and it was somewhat worse for wear with a few broken stalks dangling at the top for added character, not that he gave a shit at the moment.

He was going to kill Goodman.

Apparently Saturday was the big day for visitors and so far he'd had to endure looks from kids young and old, teenagers whose air of faux sophistication still let them drop their jaded poses long enough to smirk or sneer, and various soldiers' parents, wives and sweethearts. It was almost worse when some of them pretended not to notice.

And that was just his first abortive trip on the elevator.

Booth was no longer in the same room so, after being unable to find a nurse to ask, he'd been forced to ride all the way back down to the lobby to get the new room number, lugging the excrescence the whole way, before coming back up. In the course of his long promenade he'd encountered blue haired grannies, soldiers in civvies, some rowdy and some somber, visiting wounded their buddies, a rambunctious Cub Scout den, what seemed like a whole VFW post of old farts in regalia, and even a two star general with his coterie of junior officer sycophants. They'd _all_ given him the look. Then, in the other rear corner of the elevator there was one guy, in a gray Army t-shirt, wearing dark sunglasses who'd been riding almost as long as he had. He'd never taken his eyes off Jack, not even once.

Man, that guy was really starting to chap his ass.

However, the worst had to be the hospital staff who'd surely thought they'd seen it all, until now that is. In particular, there'd been a bevy of cute young nursing students who'd smiled sweetly at him, whispered amongst themselves, then, as they got off the elevator, paused for a backward glance and a shared giggle.

Yep, he was going to kill Goodman, alright.

Then, in the press of the crowd he'd missed his floor on the way back up, unable to squeeze to the front of the car before the doors closed, and he'd been forced to ride all the way to the top floor before coming back down, thereby providing entertainment for still more visitors.

Goodman had realized late Friday there'd been an oversight, and no flowers had been sent in the Lab's name. He'd gone ape shit because Booth was probably going to be released Monday, and had found a florist who would be open on Saturday morning. However no delivery could be arranged so he'd volunteered Jack to be the errand boy. That bastard was still riding his ass about the stink with Booth, refusing to believe that they'd really kissed and made up. He grimaced. _Make that 'buried the hatchet.' _So he was the fall guy.

It wouldn't have been so bad but for this… this floral Frankenstein. Some idiot had simply figured 'the more the merrier', and, as a result, the arrangement consisted of an overabundance of genera. He'd identified _Rosa, Dianthus, Lilium, Chrysanthemum, Dendrobium, Eucalyptus, Limonium, _and _Gypsophila, _just for startersIt had just about every damned thing but _Kitchensinkus. _It was freakin' hideous, an eyesore above and beyond being positively Brobdingnagian in proportion.

It was proof you could give a front office flunky the corporate platinum card, but you couldn't give 'im any class. Bigger was _not_ always better.

'Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity,' he consoled himself.

At least he, the conspiracy buff, didn't _think_ Goodman was that vindictively Machiavellian. The thought that the humiliation had been intentional was just too disconcerting.

Finally, his stint in vertical purgatory was drawing to a close as the slowly descending elevator reached the fifth floor again. _One more down to Booth's._ Mercifully, the car was nearly empty now.

Nearly empty, that is, except for a couple in their fifties and the guy in dark glasses who'd never quit staring. Jack had taken refuge behind the bulk of the monstrous bouquet, but he stuck his head out again as the doors opened. Damn if that SOB wasn't still there with his back to the side wall of the car, _still_ staring directly at him. And now the guy was sporting a small grin.

_Enough of this shit. _The other taller man looked very fit, like he could take him apart with one hand tied behind his back, but Jack didn't care…

"Just what are you looking at!" he challenged.

The other man answered. Or, rather, he didn't.

"Is this the fifth floor?"

Taken aback at his failure to provoke his nemesis, Jack simply answered the question, "Uh… yes, yes it is."

"Thanks." The other man reached out with a long red tipped cane to locate the doorway and stepped through.

Jack's jaw dropped, and, even as the doors closed, the voice from the other side came through loud and distinct.

"What an asshole!"

Jack was in shock for a second before he could do any damage control.

"But, but…"

The doors fully closed, and it was too late.

He gave the other last two now glaring passengers a sickly grin, sighed, and hung his head in defeat as the elevator dropped along with his stomach.

_Ding_

The doors opened on Booth's floor, thank God.

He practically ran out.

- -

It turned out that Booth's new room was still on the same floor as before; however, this time the nurses were at their station catching up paperwork instead of making rounds out on the floor. If he'd just been a few minutes later he could have been spared a world of hassle. A cute redhead, about thirty at most, was at the desk right behind the high counter, and a frosted fifty-something was behind her rummaging in a locked cabinet.

"Excuse me, I'm here to bring these to Agent Seeley Booth. Could you tell me where room 429 is?"

"Sure. Go back to the elevator bank and cut through to the corridor parallel to this one. Take a right then you'll find 429 down near the far end on your left."

"Thanks." Jack gave her a genuine smile. Bless her, she didn't bat an eye at the horticultural horror. He turned away to go.

"Wait."

He turned back for her explanation.

"If you want to save us all a trip you could just leave that here. His room is overflowing with flowers now, and he's asked us just to collect the cards and spread any more flowers out among the soldiers here."

Jack nodded. That was Booth. He'd seen Walter Reed mentioned on CNN yesterday as the location of the wounded FBI agent but as far as he knew Booth's identity was still secret. However, the leaked news that the agent wounded saving the last hostages was the very same sniper who'd kicked the shit out of the terrorists on the front steps had been electric. Jack imagined flowers were being sent by all sorts of complete strangers.

"No, thanks. I _really_ need to get these to him," he implored. "I work with him at the Jeffersonian, and my boss will have my ass if he doesn't see them."

She considered it for a moment. "Ok," she reluctantly allowed.

"Thank you! You're a lifesaver." He picked up the arrangement and turned again.

"I'd knock first if I was you…" said a smoker's voice.

The older nurse had spoken for the first time. He turned to look at her. She looked like a burnout.

She wrinkled her nose and groused, "_She's_ in there. He seems like a nice enough fella, I just hope he knows what he's getting into." She turned back to the cabinet.

He was confused…

"Don't you pay Peg any mind. She's got no sense of romance," the redhead said.

The older nurse merely grunted.

"Well, _I_ think they're cute," the younger one fired back.

The older one pulled her nose out of the cabinet again at that.

"You wouldn't think it was so cute if you were here yesterday havin' to do some of the steppin' and fetchin'. She's bossy, that one. Questioned damn near everything I did, too. Not to mention they kept screwing up the telemetry all afternoon, and I had to keep checking on it. I'm just glad they pulled most of his monitors overnight." She turned back to her task, muttering darkly.

The implied lack of social skills finally clicked._ Brennan?!?_

The younger nurse stuck out her tongue at Peg's back then turned back to him with a smile. "Cut to the other hall, then down on the left near the far end."

"Uh, thanks."

The walk only took a few minutes. Here it was, Room 429. The door was ajar, and he could hear low voices inside.

It must have been the density of the big door. It was the only possible explanation for what happened next.

He set the flower stand down in the hallway, knocked on the heavy door to announce himself as advised, and stepped right in through the doorway.

…and promptly spun on a heel and walked, no, practically _jumped_, right out again.

He didn't _think_ he was noticed.

He leaned against the wall of the corridor in shock. _Brennan and Booth?_ Even though he'd teased her a week ago about a "date", he was unprepared for the reality of it.

Finally recovering his equilibrium, he inched to the very edge of the doorframe and shamelessly eavesdropped. This was just too priceless.

He could just make out the murmuring voices.

At first his jaw gaped, then he barely suppressed what surely would have been a loud snort. _Brennan and the L-word?_

The very thought of her uttering sweet nothings, even _her_ version, just did not compute.

Suddenly Booth's voice increased in volume and clarity, piercing the fog of his astonishment:

"I _said_ 'No peeking!'"

A throaty chuckle was the only response…

"_HEY!"_

There was the sound of a splash followed by a metallic clatter as something hit the floor, then more feminine laughter and muffled voices again.

Jack couldn't help himself, and a sputtering sound escaped. He froze, listening to see if he'd been discovered, but there were no more words from inside.

He slid the monstrous floral arrangement partly into the doorway, careful not to make a sound, then made his escape. Angela was going to pee in her panties when he told her.

He almost made it to the elevators before he died laughing.

- -

_Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Laboratory, Monday Morning_

Jack joined Angela on the way to the central platform.

The Lab was up and running again and they were all trying to get a handle on the backlog resulting from its closure most of the previous week. Goodman had "requested" their presence for a command performance. The bastard had a hard-on for some remains Zack had just started working on, something old enough for Goodman to be able to strut his archaeologist stuff on. Apparently ordinary murder victims were just too pedestrian for him.

If that wasn't aggravating enough, Jack still had his suspicions about whether or not he'd been setup playing delivery man.

At least Angela smiled at him warmly, "Good morning, Jack. How are you today?"

They'd spent a lot of time together in the aftermath of the attack, at least when she wasn't forcibly baby sitting Brennan. Suddenly, he didn't find squint love to be quite such a ridiculous concept after all.

"Oh, fine," he replied in a normal voice and a big smile of his own, but then he grabbed her by the elbow as she swiped the security sensor at the foot of the stage with her badge.

"But I _still_ can't believe you didn't warn me!" he hissed.

"If I knew you were going back…" she chuckled. Her big brown eyes flashed at him

"Well, they weren't quite _in flagrante_ but they were pretty damned close!"

Goodman turned from Zack at the sound of their voices. "Dr. Hodgins, Ms. Montenegro, how nice of you to finally join us."

Jack forced a grin and merely nodded at the supercilious SOB.

Goodman began holding forth for his captive audience, apparently having been missing the chance to play professor now that he was an overpaid, chair warming paper shuffler. Jack only listened with one ear as he ascended the steps and instead watched with interest as Zack was picking apart an old, twisted skeleton that still bore some scraps of rotted leather and what looked like decayed woolen clothing of indeterminate color. He was transferring the removed bones to the other lighted exam table and rearranging them in standard anatomical position.

Jack moved closer to inspect the textiles while Goodman was still pontificating.

"… Mr. Addy has a most fascinating find today, a male skeleton from a construction site on the Maryland shore which appears upon cursory examination to be approximately two hundred years old. A pewter button he has already recovered bears the embossed image of three cannon on wheeled carriages, which strongly suggests the decedent was a British artilleryman from the War of 1812. This is truly exciting. Our first priority after accurately dating the remains is to ascertain whether or not there is any other evidence to corroborate the hypothesis that this is a British soldier. The…"

Jack tuned out the droning windbag and went to work collecting samples from the clothing…

"Dr. Hodgins!"

Goodman's near shout startled him. He practically dropped the tray he'd filled with the specimens he'd collected. The administrator needed to get the hell out of his way and just let him work.

"What!" Jack didn't bother to make it sound like a question.

"I _said_, 'How went your errand Saturday?'" Goodman wasn't exactly asking nicely either.

"Oh that." Hodgins left him hanging and started to turn back to his work. The other man was already aggravating him.

"So, Dr. Hodgins, just what did Agent Booth say?" Goodman insisted.

"I don't know, we didn't talk. I simply left the flowers."

Goodman began clouding up. "Do you mean to tell me –"

_Ah crap._ He'd better interrupt, "I didn't go all the way in. I turned around at the door when Brennan was in there with him, having a private moment if you know what I mean. I don't think they saw me. The nurses said she'd been there all morning..."

Goodman waved a hand dismissively. "Be that as it may. At least tell me, how did he look?" he demanded.

Suddenly, like so many other things Jack said which got him in trouble, it was just _there_.

"Well…" _Stay deadpan._

"Out with it, man!"

"I'd have to say somewhat better than average…" Jack paused, relishing the feeling of dangling the bait, toying with him.

Out of sight behind Goodman, Angela was shaking her head minutely. She'd long since learned to recognize the look in his eye that spelled trouble.

Just before Goodman was about to erupt, he finished the sentence, setting the hook.

"…judging by the sheets."

"What?" Bafflement warred with the irritation on Goodman's face.

Jack grinned as he dropped the bomb.

"Well, either Booth's got two hundred and seven bones or he was really happy to see her."

Goodman was stunned speechless, appalled by the implied vulgarity. His eyes bugged out of his skull then his jaws began working without actually issuing any sound. Finally they snapped shut. His eyes narrowed, and Jack fully expected steam to start shooting from the other man's ears any second just like some cartoon.

Angela choked off a single laugh then reddened and dimpled as she grabbed his arm. Jack laughed out loud in Goodman's face as he let her drag him away toward her studio.

- -

Zack Addy was so engrossed in his task that it took an extra few seconds for his brain's cognitive centers to catch up with processing the recent auditory input. He stood up straight and turned to make eye contact with Goodman, not quite sure what he'd missed.

Goodman was breathing heavily and was clearly perturbed. It was apparent even to him.

"Why, why that man…"

Zack cringed and braced himself for the explosion.

However, instead of finishing the explanation, the administrator simply glowered at him for a moment then turned about and stalked back to his office, shaking his head and muttering darkly the whole way.

The assistant was left standing there alone, still puzzled himself. After a second he started to follow Jack and Angela, but he paused at the steps.

He called out to them frowning, "Wait! I don't understand ! I didn't see an extra rib on Booth's X-rays…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes widened.

"Oh…"

He hurried after them.

The stage was empty except for the bones.

_**The End**_

**A/N – Revised**

It came to my attention that FFN's Terms and Conditions specify that only actual story content may be posted as "chapters." Therefore, I will come back and insert a proper Afterword here. In the mean time, I have gone back and revised the opening Author's Notes in Chapter1 to acknowledge my beta readers among other things.

If you go to my profile here at FFN, the website link will take you to my LiveJournal page where you can find various articles I am posting about writing Servare Vitas. Also there you can find the official "cover art" for SV kindly donated by a professional illustrator, as well as photos of the various weapons and gear if you are interested. There is also a posted 'deleted scene' formchapter 27 you may find interesting.

Of course the story itself is cross-posted there, but I am still in the process of organizing proper links to all of the chapters.


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